12. Fickle Bitch #2
So he wasn’t only quiet with her—he was like this with everyone.
Lyra took a few more bites of the stew, opting to eat around the corn. It was quiet for some time while she shoveled in bites as quickly as she could swallow.
The heat of the stew seeped into her bones, warming her from the inside out. When she took to slurping the broth out of the chipped bowl, they began speaking again.
“There’s been an issue acquiring rooms,” Ridge said.
“How so?” Wilder bit out, looking at Lyra in disgust as she slurped even louder.
“They only had two available,” Otto answered, taking another bite of the stew. “I see you will not allow anyone but yourself to guard Lyra.” The gray of his irises became darker in the candlelight, and if Lyra wasn’t mistaken, they appeared to be swirling.
Wilder ground his teeth, the muscle in his jaw quivering at the sharp angle. Something beyond the room situation was irking him.
“Last room on the left,” Otto said.
“We leave at first light—get some rest,” Wilder said before tugging her along.
The humans watched them as they tromped up the stairs. Wilder didn’t speak to anyone at all as he led her down the hall on the second floor and to the last door on the left.
He flung open the door and shoved her inside. The space was much larger on the inside than she thought it would be. But not large enough to hold more than one bed.
Wilder glared at the single iron bed like it had insulted him before gritting his teeth. It was dark beyond the open curtains, and warm candles glowed around the space, making it appear cozy.
“You take the bed.” He stomped over to the window and drew the curtains closed.
Lyra stood at the threshold a beat longer, feeling an array of emotions. She tried to cycle through them, but as soon as she identified one, three more sprang to mind.
It was awkward with this tension between them. She felt lost, confused, and even annoyed. He kidnapped her. She didn’t want to be a hindrance. He was making her one.
Wilder peeked through the small gap he made in the curtains, monitoring the street before shutting it back up. He breathed sharply through his nose and looked at her once more.
“Well, why are you standing in the doorway? Go to bed.”
Lyra’s spine stiffened at the order and his tone. She had warned him of that already and dug her heels in.
But he misunderstood her stubbornness and took it for confusion.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
Lyra shook her head. Her mass of unbound hair swayed with the movement. She looked down at where her hair brushed against her body and realized she was still wearing his cloak—backward—over her ripped and stained gown. She must have looked like a vagrant.
Wilder followed her stare and cleared his throat.
“Do you require a change of clothes? I could see if Maelys packed some. We will be on the road awhile.”
Lyra continued glaring at him. He glared right back.
“You did nothing but yap the entire way here, and now that I need you to answer a question, you decide to be mute.” His nostrils flared as he clenched his teeth.
It infuriated her, that arrogance.
He threw up his hands and stalked past her and to the door, throwing a withering glare her way.
“That’s a basin full of clean water. Clean yourself up. You stink,” he ordered. “And do not move from this room.”
Wilder didn’t even wait for her to respond before he stepped past her and slammed the wooden door shut behind him. The resounding slam echoed through her head.
The food had warmed her bones, but now she felt the weight of the day. Exhaustion tugged at her. She should sleep, and then she could think through her next steps with a clear head.
Lyra looked around the room. There was nothing in here but a few charcoal drawings on the wall, a dilapidated bedside table, and a mirror. She hadn’t seen what she looked like yet as a human, so she worked up the courage to walk across the room.
She was horrifying.
Lyra had never seen her hair down before. It hung in loose waves and random ringlets to her waist. It framed her frighteningly pale face. Her emerald eyes were dull and muted. She looked like a specter.
No wonder the humans had stared—she did not resemble one of them at all.
The door cracked open, and Maelys peered through.
“Otto had me pack extra.” She waved a fistful of fabric at Lyra.
Lyra took the clothes and gave her a curt nod.
Maelys returned the nod with one of her own, but also a small smile that softened her features.
“You’ll be more comfortable in those. See you in the morning.”
The door closed with a click.
Lyra frowned and stood there dumbfounded before looking down at the fabric in her hands. There were two of them. One was soft green. She searched her mind for the name …
A blouse. It was a blouse.
The second one was longer and of the same fabric the water was kept in—leather. It was pants.
She sighed, holding the pants up in front of her legs.
Well, for someone all-seeing, he had made a mistake in the sizing. There was no way these were going to fit. She tugged at the top of them and marveled when the fabric stretched. Never mind then, maybe they would.
Two small pieces of fabric dropped from the leg of the pants when she held them up. Lyra glared down at them before picking them up. Her cheeks burned when she realized what they were: undergarments.
A thin, nearly sheer pair of bottoms that would barely fit her by the looks of them, and then a strange top that she assumed was for her breasts due to the similarity in shape.
Lyra tossed her new garments onto the bed and pulled off her boots before untying Wilder’s cloak. She draped it at the foot of the bed before ripping off what remained of her dress.
It was sad, really. The stitching was so elaborate, the ruffles and pleats so exquisite, and she had ruined it. She traced a flower that was stitched onto the hem before throwing the dress onto the floor. She stood there naked and looked down at her bare legs.
They were shapely, not too thin nor too thick. She pointed her toes, and the muscles on her thighs bulged. Running a hand down them, she smiled. Lyra liked her legs. They were pretty.
A commotion in the hall had her covering her naked flesh with a hand.
She froze.
That was not how that felt before. She peered down at herself. Why was it in the front? She looked behind her, and her eyes widened. Her backside had not been that supple when she had a tail.
What kind of magic was this?
Another clamber outside the door had her scurrying over to the basin. She needed to hurry before Wilder decided that was enough time and burst back in.
Lyra dunked the small towel in the basin. The water was clear and lightly scented with fresh herbs. She wiped off her face and then the rest of her body.
Leaving the water in the basin cloudy with dirt, she scrubbed from her skin. When the water was no longer usable, she sighed, already missing it against her skin. It had been a comfort to feel the water and not the grime of the land.
With the undergarments in their assumed positions, she tugged the top over her head before grabbing the pants and slipping them on one leg at a time.
The pants did in fact stretch to fit her perfectly. Even if they were snug, suctioning to her skin. They highlighted every curve of her legs and backside.
The top fell right at the top of the pants, and when she moved, a sliver of her stomach showed. She was tugging the shirt down to cover the exposed skin fully when there was a knock on the door.
“Are you done?”
“Mhm,” she called.
The door swung open, and Wilder appeared.
She waited for him to comment on her new clothes, but he didn’t.
His face was twisted somewhere between a grimace and a snarl. But he froze when he saw her. His eyes flared a fraction before he tucked whatever emotion he had felt back behind his carefully crafted mask. He kicked the door closed and ripped the cloak off the bed.
A pillow was tucked under his arm. Lyra watched as he threw it onto the floor between the bed and the door and lay down. He still hadn’t said a word to her, but his actions were clear; it was time to sleep.
Quilts of varying patterns covered blue floral sheets. It was quite pretty for an old tavern such as this. As she slipped beneath the sheets and quilts, a sigh escaped her.
The bed was fluffy and held her tenderly as she settled in. It was strange. Nothing had ever held her before.
In Atlantis, the constant ebb and flow of the ocean kept her hovering just a hairsbreadth over the giant shell she used as a bed. Even with her multitude of kelp blankets to weigh her down, it was never enough and felt more smothering than anything.
It probably didn’t help that the shell resembled the large mouths of ancient sea monsters.
Wilder cleared his throat, and all the candles in the room were snuffed out. Had he done that? What kind of elf magic was that?
A deluge of questions bubbled up, but she tamped them down. They hadn’t spoken since her outburst with magic, and she doubted he would be willing now.
Lyra closed her eyes, inhaling the lingering smoke from the candles. She hoped sleep would take her soon. She’d welcome any kind of reprieve from the awkwardness that was growing between them.
But sleep was a fickle bitch.