11. Chapter 11
Lunette
Sleeping on the hard wooden floor at thirty-four was nothing like it had been at eighteen.
It had seemed like a considerate choice at bedtime.
He needed the rest, and I doubted he would appreciate me climbing into the bed beside him.
But the uneven wooden slats were a poor substitute for the pillow of muscles I’d enjoyed before.
By the time I awoke before dawn, my spine had locked rigidly in protest. Thankfully, Rowan slept through the mortifying contortions I’d performed just to stand up.
After a bit of stretching, I threw on my shawl and gloves and spent an hour outside, listening to the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves while working on my little vegetable patch. Muffin scampered off at some point to chase a wood mouse, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Rowan wasn’t actually “Rowan,” I would’ve staked my own name on that. Plus, his questions about the Assembly? About Gelidian rebels? I was so, so tempted to ask, but not getting involved in other people’s problems was always safest.
Maybe if I didn’t know, trouble wouldn’t come my way. Or maybe that was just another lie added to the ever-growing pile.
My parents had warned me away from anything official when it came to being a mage. The less the wider world, and the Mage Assembly, knew about me, the better.
I was eleven when my mother sat me down and told me that a Fae girl on the other side of the mountain had been taken.
Her voice had stayed level the entire time she spoke, but her hands, wrapped around mine, had not.
The girl was a little older than me with a gift for growing things.
A traveling group of mages had offered her family coin and assurances that her magical tutelage would be the finest in the world if she just came with them.
The family had refused.
The next day their cabin was found in ruins, the patriarch murdered inside the collapsed structure. Both children and the mother were gone, never to be seen again.
I still remember my mother’s words: Don’t let anyone see what you can do, Luna. Don’t let anyone know what you are. If they come, kill them or run.
I’d never stopped hiding.
Rowan’s apparent worry about them only reinforced that message and made slightly less wary about him.
When I headed back inside, Muffin immediately came scrambling back home after me, long body bounding across the ground, snout covered in blood.
Gross. He had the soul of a lethal predator but the look of something you wanted to snuggle.
I moved as silently as possible through the cabin while Muffin scrambled onto the countertop, eyeing the bed as he licked off the gore covering his furry face .
Rowan shifted, the rasp of wool and soft groan the first signs he was awake.
When I’d checked on him during the night, his fever had broken, so I was hopeful for his recovery today.
He watched me silently for a few minutes, eyes half-lidded, expression impossible to read.
Exhaustion still clung to him in the dark shadows of his face.
I could still feel his eyes on me as I dropped my bundle of greens and harvesting knife on the worktable, metal clanging loudly in the silence.
It wasn’t a hungry stare or active judgment, more a curious, gentle assessment.
I usually hated being noticed, but this didn’t feel the same as when others watched me.
How is this going to end, Luna?
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, voice a gravelly whisper.
“Yes.” A partial truth. I had rested. Sleep was touch-and-go.
He didn’t argue, though something dangerously close to concern lingered in the air between us. I didn’t look at him, just kept at my work. If I did, I might see it written on his face, and I wasn’t sure how to handle softness from another person anymore.
Muffin’s growl was the only warning before—
BAM BAM BAM.
I jumped, and every muscle in my body tensed, almost making me cut myself with my harvesting knife. Someone was hammering on the door hard enough to vibrate the wood with each blow.
I started toward the door, but the swift rustling of sheets and small surge of magic made me stop and turn to my patient.
“Do you know who that is?” Rowan had pushed himself upright, breathing through the pain, holding a—
Holy gods, he was holding a very sharp, very wicked-looking Nocthel sword.
Up to this point, I’d only seen his amorphous shadows, never anything so sharply defined, so perfectly real. Reading about this sort of magic was one thing, but seeing it in real life was another.
From his reaction, trouble was after him. I’d have to check the wards tomorrow to make certain it didn’t find us.
I peeked through the window’s slats. When I recognized the person standing there, my relief warred with my annoyance. “No one important. I hope you didn’t just rip the stitches I put in last night!”
Rowan afforded me the courtesy of looking guilty. Only the night before, he’d refused my healing with infuriating resolve, claiming I needed the rest. And so his freshly regrown skin had surrendered to needle and thread. Seventy-two stitches, and not a single sound of complaint.
Pushing down the million questions I wanted to ask him about being a Nocthel, I wiped my hands on my apron and ordered, “Stay in bed, and put that away!”
Rowan smiled, his expression making it clear he had no intention of following my orders. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I’d never given him my father’s old clothes. His nakedness, at least, should solve today’s stubbornness.
I opened the door a crack.
Elbort’s face was red with frustration and cold. His forearm was wrapped in a crude bandage; he reeked of muck and sweat.
“Took your time answering,” he growled, stepping closer and thrusting his arm in my direction even though I hadn’t allowed him entry. “It’s bad. Fix it.”
No greeting. He didn’t even ask, just expected it as his due.
“Good morning to you too, Elbort,” I said flatly. “What happened?”
He held out the sloppy strip of burlap, already soaked through with blood. “Split my arm open on one of the pens.”
Clumsier than the pigs he raises…or drunk…or just stupid.
I glanced back at Rowan. Though his jaw was tense, he hadn’t budged an inch. I mouthed “good boy” to him, and his face broke into a grin that made heat pool low in my belly.
I was shocked to see Muffin sitting up on his hind legs on the bed beside him, tasseled ears alert, snarling at the door, ready to fight. Apparently, Rowan was his ally against the pig farmer now.
I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t risk drawing attention to my guest.
“I’ll treat you outside,” I said.
Elbort huffed. “In the cold? Figures.”
He followed me off the porch to the log I sat on to play with Muffin on nice days. A fine mist had returned, drifting in silver threads through the morning light piercing the treetops. It wasn’t horrible weather, but I already wanted to be back inside.
I unwound the burlap around his arm and swallowed a curse. The gash was bad. The top layer of muscle was torn, edges of the skin ragged. He hadn’t cleaned it properly either. If he got an infection from this, it wouldn’t be my fault.
“This must’ve happened hours ago,” I muttered.
“I was working.” He rolled his eyes. Elbort eyed the cabin in the calculating way he inspected everything, though there was wariness there now too. “Not all of us have the luxury of staying indoors, loafing around with…your new company.”
My spine, still suffering from the night’s horrible sleep, tensed. Awareness prickled along my skin and, against my will, I glanced toward the cabin.
Rowan was standing in the doorway, shirtless, wearing an odd-looking pair of black trousers. His magic had marked black swirls across his chest, making him look like a tattooed berserker rather than the nobleman I suspected he actually was.
Fate, apparently, also had a sense of humor, because Muffin was perched on his shoulder, tail up in the air, on high alert.
It took more effort than it should’ve to drag my gaze from his muscled torso back to Elbort’s festering wound. “Just…hold still.”
Elbort grunted as I laid my hands over the torn skin. My magic responded weakly, feeling like a thread pulled too tight and about to snap. Rest had helped, but I’d poured too much into Rowan these past days; the well inside me was still running low.
Elbort hissed. “Gods, woman, you tryin’ to burn my arm off?”
Oops. Flustered, I’d accidentally poured a bit of fire into the weaving.
But he didn’t have to know that. While my secondary gift of telekinesis was much stronger, I could also summon enough flame to set kindle alight or burn skin.
“An old cut like this will sting more than a fresh one.” My voice stayed even through the lie. “Don’t move.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t worn yourself out with that stranger you let inside the wards,” he grumbled, pointing his chin toward the porch where I could still feel Rowan’s piercing eyes on me.
My jaw clenched. “Enough,” I said firmly. I considered burning him a bit more on purpose but decided he wasn’t worth the magic.
“Or,” Elbort said, voice turning cruel, “is that how you’re earning these days? Entertaining men now? One step below healing for coin, I suppose.”
Below? How dare he insult women for doing what they needed to survive?
Even so, just a few sentences from this ill-educated pig farmer were enough to reopen the wounds I thought had healed. The whispers had haunted me for years.
Gods. My cheeks heated with embarrassment as pressure built behind my eyes.
Yes, I’d slept with two men in the village, but not for coin. I’d been lonely, and they weren’t married.
The hum of magic forced my gaze back toward the cabin. Muffin was bounding my way, fur bristling. Rowan filled the doorway, bracing himself against the frame with one hand, the other resting against his ribs. That, and the bandage, were the only indications he was injured.
Because, gods, his expression was murderous…