Chapter 9 Gods with Subrosas
Gods with Subrosas
Sheba jerked upright, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The sudden movement sent a flare of pain through her, and she lay back down with care on what appeared to be blankets made of soft fur.
Wincing at the ache in her body, her mind got hit with shards of memories of her and Idan’s flight from the valley.
She remembered the high mountain passes, the biting wind that threatened to scour the skin from her flesh, and the desperate panic she tried so damn hard to stave off.
Most vividly, she recalled the moment it ended: Idan reaching out, the silent intensity in his gaze, and the single, effortless tap of his finger against her forehead.
One that snuffed out her consciousness like a candle flame. Again.
Speaking of, where was he?
She panicked, eyes flying open to peer around her without moving too much.
She found him and stared, her breath hitching.
He lay slumped in a pelt-lined recliner across the unfamiliar room.
The grain of the chair’s timber followed the curve of his back with a master carpenter’s precision.
His long, dark hair swept the floorboards, and his chiseled jaw relaxed in sleep, a heavy leather-bound book resting on his chest.
Yet it was his skin that held her captive.
Even in rest, the gold sigils inscribed on his torso seemed to have a life of their own.
They shifted and coiled beneath the surface, pulsing with a glowing light.
The mystery of him, of not knowing what his heritage was, hit her once again.
So many subrosas.
She wondered whether lying in his bed, under his roof, in his home was a good idea now.
Logic reminded her that she’d had no other option, so, giving in to inevitability, she began to take inventory of the sanctuary he’d brought her to.
She lay cocooned in a massive bunk draped in heavy, luxurious pelage in creams, golds, and black that warded off the mountain chill.
Her eyes drifted to the hearth, where flames flickered, casting an amber illumination in the room.
Sheba’s brow arched in silent surprise when she spotted a basket tucked near the warmth of the fire.
Inside, a baby lamb nestled into a tight woolly ball, its tiny chest rising and falling in sleep.
The room was an unusual marriage of the antediluvian and the curated.
The fireplace was huge, as was the soaring stack of wood next to it, arranged in a geometric pattern.
The walls were rough-hewn, the marks of the axe still visible in the grain.
However, the shelves were a testament to a dedicated carpenter’s hand, engraved with symbols and motifs that appeared otherworldly.
An eclectic mix of weathered books crowded each shelf alongside pots overflowing with green-leafed plants that spilled over the edges, thriving and verdant.
On a long surface beside the fireplace were an assortment of tools.
Below them hung sheets of hides, along with leather pouches, belts, gun holsters, and saddles, which together accounted for the warm, organic scent permeating the room, reminiscent of nature.
Beyond a carved arch, she spotted the functional shadows of a sizable kitchen and pantry.
Through a half-open door, she also took in the steam-slicked stones of an attached bathhouse.
Then, she swiveled her head and gasped at the view out the windows.
Sheba stared, forgetting to breathe.
She had never seen a night vista so clear.
The plexiglass offered a haunting panorama of the valley below, draped in the velvet of midnight.
Above, the sky was a vast, glittering expanse, sliced through by the ethereal ribbons of a distant aurora, ghostly greens and violets dancing over the peaks.
She twisted up to see it, mesmerized until a sudden meteor shower brought back memories of why she was here, in this unfamiliar hut with him.
Panic flared, and she closed her eyes, took deep inhales to tamp her anxiety down, swallowing hard, her jaw tightening.
Yet all she saw behind sealed lids was Imani and Brad as they fell to their deaths.
Sheba rolled onto her side, her teeth gritted against the phantom heat of the slug that tore through her deltoid.
The memory of the clinic massacre assailed her; she re-envisioned the spray of crimson spattering a white shirt and re-imagined the wet rattle of Imani’s last breath.
Burying her face in the musk-scented furs, she bit her lip to stifle the ragged sobs that threatened to shatter the silence.
Her attempt to suppress her weeping failed.
A floorboard groaned under a shift of mass as she flung open her puffed-up eyes.
Idan’s gaze, a molten fusion of silver and gold, raked over her.
Her soul jolted, then surged as if drawn to him by an invisible tether as their eyes locked in the amber gloom.
He set aside the leather-bound book and rose, his frame unfolding with fluid grace.
He bridged the distance to the bedside in three measured strides and knelt before her.
She scrubbed the salt from her cheeks as he leaned in, the glow of his irises radiating a strange, heavy calm.
You’re safe within these walls.
The words bloomed inside her skull, and she winced, unprepared for how his burred subvox whisper sent a shudder through her.
It also calmed her, and her heaving subsided as she wiped away her tears.
He waited in silent patience until she took a deep inhale and shot him a tremulous smile.
He spoke out loud, his timbre a hoarse growl. ‘How do you feel?’
She forced a nod. ‘I’m OK.’
His calloused hands moved toward her shoulder, peeling back the fur wrap to inspect the site of the impact.
The skin showed no puncture, no ragged scar, only a smooth, unbroken expanse of a honey gold complexion, and he grunted in satisfaction.
‘How do you do it?’ she asked, thinking of the blinding flare of white light that emanated from his palms when he healed her.
He pursed his lush lips into a thin line, gazing at her, his gaze heavy and loaded with a thousand years of context.
‘That’s a story for another day,’ he rasped after a long beat.
His face was a cool mask, but the flickering intensity of his sigils told an entirely different truth.
That’s when Sheba realized they were an expression of his emotions better than his actual face.
She exhaled and shook her head. ‘You’re a man who gets off on subrosas.’
He studied his head, a gleam coming to his eye, his timbre dipping into a hoarse rasp. ‘There’s a lot more I get off on, woman. You’ve no idea.’
Their shared gaze heated until a loud growl issued from her midsection.
Idan’s eyes tracked the sound to her stomach, and his brow arched in a silent question.
She bit her lip and shrugged as he stood, his height casting a long shadow across the timber walls.
He crossed the room to the hearth and retrieved a ceramic bowl from the shelf, filling it with a thick blend from a hanging iron pot.
He plunged a spoon into the mix and returned to her side, placing an intricate carved tray with small feet over her knees.
‘Wild venison stew,’ he announced. ‘Eat.’
She blinked as its aroma hit her, carrying the pungent scent of cumin, charred pepper, and slow-simmered meat.
Her tummy growled again as she dove in with a muttered ‘Sante.’
Sheba ate with a feral intensity, the ragout of lentils, root vegetables, and tender venison warming her from the inside out.
Idan, mouth curved, eyes brimming with satisfaction, turned his attention to the fire, feeding the ravenous embers fresh cedar logs.
He prowled to her side soon after, bringing her a tin mug of water before tending to the lamb in its basket.
Beyond the clear plexiglass, the first heavy flakes of high mountain snow began to veil the valley in white.
‘Got to feed the animals,’ he growled moments later, ‘you’ll be safe, I’ve got my Ssignakht on you.’
Arching a brow at his pronouncement, unsure of what it even meant, she blinked as he pulled on a thick hide cloak that flowed to his heels.
Moments later, he stepped out into the biting cold.
She was finishing her last mouthful of the food and licking the spoon when he returned, frost clinging to his dark lashes.
Without a word, he took the tray from her and placed it on the kitchen bench.
Then, hanging up his coat, he dragged a heap of heavy hides to the floorboards beside the bed.
‘Idan, wait, the bed is yours,’ Sheba said, realising his intent, her voice cutting through the crackle of the hearth.
She shifted, preparing to rise. ‘I’ll take the floor. You’ve given enough, and I’m all good and mended, thanks to you.’
He raised a hand to stay her, his gaze freezing her movement.
With a purse again of those sensuous lips, he sat on the pelts, pulled his boots off, and sprawled on them.
She stared mesmerized at his beauty.
Damn, he was a monument of corded muscle, ropey sinew, and ancient gold.
The sigils upon his skin moved with the slow, rhythmic crawl of fiery metal, tracing the map of a potency within him she could not name.
With one final molten glance at her, he lay down on his back, hitching one knee up, arms open as if he had nada to hide.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he sighed, surrendering to a deep, heavy sleep, leaving her alone with her wonder and the hushed silence.
Cedar floorboards groaned under Sheba’s feet as she paced the interior of the hut, the walls closing in.
Other than the adorable lamb for company, she was riding solo.
Idan was away, keeping to his strict schedule, one she’d witnessed for two mornings in a row now.
The man was a paragon of routine.
Each morning, first light signaled his prepping for departure.
He moved through a rigid sequence: stoking the embers, hauling buckets of well water for the troughs, and then making a packed lunch of cheese, bread, and beer, she assumed he brewed himself.
He always made sure there was food on the fire, a slow-bubbling stew most of the time, before leaving. Presumably to shepherd his flock into the high meadows where the grass grew thickest.
She tracked his movements from the window, following his muscled silhouette until it dissolved into the horizon.