Chapter Twelve Blood Watchers #3
Reya had never felt smaller than she did in that moment.
She hated it. Hated him. It was an effort to leash the violence her own body had readied itself for, the kind that had earned the Crimson Dagger her name—that no amount of forging could carve out or burn away.
Because it was part of her. “He made me strong.” Hector Connery had taught her how to forge steel; he was the most honorable man she’d ever known, better than the world he’d inherited, but that hadn’t saved him.
Lennox Raulin had used steel to carve the weakness out of her and cauterize the wound it left behind.
Every time she wanted to curse Lennox’s name, she remembered all the times his lessons had kept her alive when it mattered.
“Look me in the eye and tell me that again, but this time, make me believe it.” When she said nothing, he placed his hands against the tree on either side of her, careful not to touch her, even on accident.
He waited for her to look at him, voice low and dangerous.
“You do not cower before anyone. Entire armies will cower before you.”
Her next inhale was too loud, her body reminding her it couldn’t function without the air he’d stolen.
As his gaze followed the heave of her lungs down to the Earth Star ring dangling between her breasts, barely hidden beneath the sopping shirt, she felt like she could indeed make armies cower before her.
Warmth pooled in her belly like whiskey as his eyes slid lower, and she let him survey the tapestry of scars that told the story of the Crimson Dagger. Let him witness just how many people had tried and failed to end her.
The men she’d taken to bed tended to avoid the scars, like touching them might bring all her traumas to the surface and they didn’t want to shatter her or the moment.
Caelan was looking at her like he wanted to make a map of every scar with his mouth.
Like he knew she wouldn’t break beneath his touch.
Like they were not scars she’d been given but rather won, like his own.
The honeysuckle of her scent sweetened, and his entire body tightened. His voice was rough, angry. “I can smell your need.”
Painted in the blood of their enemies, high on the victory of cheating death, Reya knew this was a bad idea.
“I would apologize, but you seem to like it.” His own scent had grown smoky once more, like sparks catching on cedar.
Whatever war he was waging with himself, she suddenly wanted him to lose.
“I don’t take demi-Sage thieves I’m actively blackmailing to bed.”
Reya tucked a finger into the top of his breastplate, tugging slightly, and said, both in spite of and owing to the carnage around them, “Who said anything about a bed?”
Caelan grabbed her wrist tightly and held it. “I’ve got nothing to give you, thief. Nothing you would enjoy.”
The words found their mark, and she tried to swallow the embarrassment, to let what he said ground her in the haze of bloodlust crowding her judgement.
She should have known Caelan Halcyon didn’t lose. With gritted teeth, he continued, “Get dressed. If there are other hunting parties in the area, they’ll see the smoke.”
As if their lives weren’t already in jeopardy, now they had both Blood Watchers and Dread Wolves to deal with. And on top of it all, she needed another bath.
“Give me a minute,” she mumbled, wanting—no, needing to cool down.
She hoped Caelan didn’t think much about the indirect path she took toward the pond.
The Kellstone bolt he’d pulled out of her was half submerged in water, its upper half still wet with her blood.
She stopped, toes inches from the stone.
All she had to do was lean down and pick it up, and her magic would cease to be a problem.
It would be so easy.
Reya couldn’t continue this way, waiting for the next slip. Not when it had nearly cost Ash his life. Her eyes burned, and she licked a salted tear from her lip. He had come for her—because he’d thought she’d been in trouble. And she so easily could have killed him.
She’d done worse before.
This was a part of her she’d never been able to control, and so she’d chained it. Did that make her any better than the men she’d just killed? Than those who had beaten and starved Stellene? Worse, because she’d done it to herself?
The red mark on her chest was actually starting to fade. Maybe it was Caelan healing her, or maybe it was her own immortality, but the itch had ceased along with her migraines. Did she really want to go back if there was another path forward?
She felt the prickle of Caelan’s gaze on her and turned, meeting his eyes over her shoulder, eyes that were hard and filled with judgement, and yet he made no move to stop her. This was different than the night in the alley. This was a choice she had to make for herself, and they both knew it.
There was a way to control the light. And he could show it to her.
So she stepped away, her neck and face unbearably hot.
Reya hated letting Caelan see this weakness, this fear of herself.
Hated that she was proving him right. She wanted out of her clothes, her skin.
Wanted to shake him in the same way he had shaken her.
Feeling more reckless than she’d ever felt in her life, she peeled the soaked tunic over her head and wrung it out with a smack, felt his eyes sliding down her legs as she ambled past the piles of smoking corpses.
Heart beating like a war drum, she dove into the cold water.