Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
With Owain’s help, Orla slowly made her way to the opulent washroom.
Her legs were still sore, and it was difficult to stand without wincing.
Standing at the washroom sink, she got her first look at herself in the mirror.
She looked like hell. Her braids were frayed, her eyes puffy.
A deep bruise had bloomed under her chin from a blow she couldn’t even remember.
“Do you need help?” Owain asked. Steam billowed out of the tap on the large, elevated stone tub that Owain had been filling.
He looked at her, brows furrowed in concern, lips tight in a thin line.
It was strange to see him like this, no cocky swagger or bored indifference.
No kind smiles. There was so much fear in his eyes.
She nodded as he moved towards her. Carefully, they started to remove her torn, bloody clothes, taking stock of the rest of her injuries. She had a large scar down her forearm where the assassin slashed her. Owain reached out and gently ran his fingers up the scar.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it from scarring. I had to focus on your more serious injuries first, and the healers were focused on keeping you breathing. I didn’t get to this one until this morning.” He looked so sad as he continued to run his fingers up and down her arm.
“It’s fine. More than fine. I’d be dead if you hadn’t healed me.” He let out a choked sound at her words and nodded as more tears welled in his eyes.
“I’m just glad I got there in time.” He continued helping her undress down to her undergarments as she looked along her body.
There was a thin scar on her thigh, and deep bruises on her side.
She was surprised by how fully Owain had been able to heal the stab wounds on her back. They hadn’t scarred at all.
When it came time to remove her undergarments, Owain stepped out of the room. “I’ll give you some privacy. Call out if you need me.”
She took her time stepping into the warm tub.
The pain from her muscles and stiff joints began to ease.
Taking her time, she washed herself fully before moving on to her hair.
As she washed, images of the attack flashed in her mind.
The attacker lunging at her. The sound of her ribs cracking.
The feeling of warm blood gushing between her fingers.
Deftly, she unbraided the thin individual braids before washing and conditioning her coily strands.
After she was clean, she dried off and braided her hair into one long plait down her back.
She hadn’t brought any clothes into the washroom, so she had to walk out in the towel.
When she stepped back into the bedroom, Owain was setting out the food Chrys had brought them.
He also had one of her night dresses laid out on the bed.
Looking up, he noticed her gaze falling on the garment.
“I had Chrys go into your room and get you a few things. I hope that was all right.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Orla. I’m just glad you’re all right. Here, get comfortable and eat while I get cleaned up.”
Several minutes later, Owain rejoined Orla in the bedroom.
He looked much more refreshed. His hair, still wet from the bath, looked darker and fell farther down his forehead.
He wore black trousers that hung low on his hips and a cream tunic that was untied, revealing a peek at the tanned skin of his chest. He was now clean shaven, his sharp jaw clenched.
He stood there just looking at her as if unsure what to say next.
“You’re staring,” she said, mouth full with a bite of the buttery biscuit Chrys had brought them.
“I didn’t think you would make it. You lost so much blood and I—” He cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck and looking sheepishly at the ground. She rose from the armchair and walked up to him.
“I’m not that fragile, Owain. I might be a ball of nerves all the time, but I’m not so easily killed. I’m so grateful that you healed me, but you don’t have to be afraid for me. It’s not the first time someone has tried to kill me.” She smiled, hoping to lighten the mood.
It was true, she had two previous assassination attempts on her.
Though both of those were shortly after Fontina.
The first had been outside of her townhome.
That attacker hadn’t bothered to conceal themselves and came at her with a sword after she had stumbled home late from her favorite tavern.
Back then, she was much more practiced at fighting than she was now and easily disarmed the attacker before driving their own sword through their chest.
The second was the two-year anniversary of Fontina.
This attacker was stealthier and snuck into her townhome in Imsil.
He caught her off guard and tried to strangle her while she was asleep in her bedroom.
She had a vase of flowers on her nightstand that she grabbed to bludgeon the attacker.
Though she had never confirmed the identity of either attacker, she assumed they were both sent by someone living in Edam.
She didn’t want to think about it but it was likely this attacker was as well.
“I know you’re not fragile. And I’m sorry I’m being so damned awkward.
It’s just”—he ran his hand through his damp hair— “I know you are more capable than most when it comes to defending yourself. But I also know you don’t like reminders of your time in the army, and I don’t know how to walk that line.
I don’t want to be presumptuous and think you need me to protect you.
But I’ve never cared about…” He paused again, searching for the words.
“I want to take care of you. If you’ll let me.
” He reached his hand out to grip Orla’s hip, and he looked into her eyes. “Will you let me take care of you?”
He wanted to take care of her. Orla didn’t know how she felt about that. She hadn’t been taken care of since she was fifteen years old. And one could hardly call her father’s brand of care soft or cuddly.
For a moment, panic gripped her. To be cared for sounded an awful lot like being depended on.
Like being loved, and Orla had killed and disappointed the last people who had loved her.
She didn’t even know if it was possible for her to love and be loved in any real way.
Not anymore. Maybe she was too much like her mother and would never be able to feel love the way Elves did.
Destined for love to be like water in her palm, flowing through her fingers whenever she tried to hold onto it.
But looking into Owain’s eyes, so earnest and full of concern, she thought maybe she could let him care for her. For a little while until she fully healed. What could be the harm in that?
* * *
Over the next several days, Orla let Owain take care of her.
He got her meals, drew her baths, and doted on her every need.
She decided to stay in his rooms since they were much larger and nicer than her own.
He was gentle and so tender, it filled her with joy.
Each night, they would go to bed next to one another, and though Orla was plagued with nightmares of the attack or of Fontina or Rhyan, her fear subsided the moment she opened her eyes and saw Owain sleeping next to her.
As if on instinct, he would always pull her towards him when she was having a nightmare. His warmth steadied her.
When she couldn’t fall back asleep after her dreams, she would watch him sleep.
He would usually sleep on his stomach, head facing her, with one of his large arms slung over her midriff.
He looked younger as he slept, less burdened than he did during the day.
While watching him, it took all her resolve not to reach out and trail her fingers along his firm muscles.
He always slept in sleep pants and a shirt, though that didn’t stop Orla from imagining what lay underneath those clothes.
On one of their evenings, they lounged together in Owain’s bed.
Owain was reading over documents from the meetings he had been missing with the kings over the past few days while Orla finished braiding her hair.
Over the past several days, he had been the perfect gentleman.
No sexual innuendos or advances. Just a chaste kiss on her forehead whenever he had to leave their rooms.
Their rooms.
She liked the sound of that. Though, it was a foolish thought.
These were Owain’s rooms, and he was being kind enough to allow her to heal in them.
She was looking at the scar along her forearm.
It was no longer red and puffy. It had settled over the past few days and now looked months old instead of days.
“How do you know about so many different types of magic?” She looked from her scar to him.
Spending so much time in his rooms, she was discovering little quirks about him.
Like how he chewed on the inside of his lip while he concentrated.
Or how he wore reading glasses anytime he needed to focus on a document for long periods of time.
He looked at her over his glasses in a move that made her suppress a grin.
“I told you, all magic comes from within, you just have to know how to tap into that well of power that allows it to flow.”
“Sure, but Elven magic comes from within, and nymph magic comes from the earth. And healing magic… I didn’t know that was something Elves could do.
” Orla had known more powerful Elves than she cared to count from her time in the army.
A healing gift would have been invaluable to any war effort, but she had never heard of any Elves possessing that power.
“It’s… rare,” he hedged. “But it is not unheard of.”
“You also knew about the runes. That is pretty old magic. I know you’re older than me, but I didn’t know you were that old.” He barked a laugh, face breaking out into a wide smile.