17. Chapter 17
After an extended period of staring wide-eyed at Vaelin, the innkeeper had provided them with stalls for their horses as well as a key to the only available room for the night.
Isla had elbowed the fae in the ribs during the exchange, hoping it would encourage him to smile.
The innkeeper had gaped at her like she'd thrust her hand into a bear trap.
Vaelin simply stared at her, a look of utter confusion etched across his face. She rolled her eyes.
Minutes later, Isla found herself trailing him up the old staircase, the wood creaking in protest at his weight.
A soft chuckle escaped her as he was forced to duck beneath the exposed beams that ran horizontally across the ceiling of the hallway, the top of his head just grazing them.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, a dark brow raised in question.
“I was just thinking you look a bit like an over-large toy a child stuffed into their dollhouse.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, a shadow of that dimple appearing, as he pushed open the door to their room.
Isla stepped over the threshold, a faint smile coming to her lips.
It felt so quintessentially Terravernian, with little touches of greenery throughout the room.
A table and two chairs sat in the corner nearest them, a lantern sitting next to a centrepiece of cedar.
Next to it, the door to the bath chamber stood open, a deep, claw foot tub nearly filling the room, and Isla was instantly consumed with an immediate yearning to bathe.
She moved to set her satchel and saddlebag down on the armchair that sat across from the small, brick fireplace freshly stocked with kindling, her eyes passing over a homemade quilt tossed over the foot of the four-poster bed. The only bed.
Isla froze, her bags midway to the seat of the chair.
She shook her head, cursing inwardly. Of course there was only one bed.
Brackenford was a small village off the main trail.
They didn’t see many travellers, hence the innkeeper’s shock at the novelty of Vaelin’s presence, and the fact that they only had one room available for the night.
Her pulse beat faster in her throat as her mind began to spin.
"I'll be fine on the floor,” Vaelin said from across the room. His tone was easy, and he didn’t look at her as he let his own bags settle on the table, his to back to her.
Isla flushed, embarrassed by her almost visceral reaction.
“Thank you,” she said, attempting to force her voice into a light, nonchalant tone that ended up somewhere between too high and too falsely genuine to belong to her.
She winced, setting her own bag down. Reaching into her satchel, she shifted its contents gingerly.
A light, earthy scent wafted into the air and she breathed in deeply, sighing.
She could no longer ignore the fatigue that clawed at her.
Her limbs felt heavy, the throbbing in her shoulders, legs, and back muscles now a constant, sharp ache.
Lifting a hand to rub the back of her neck, she turned to find Vaelin staring at her from across the room.
He’d discarded his vambraces and gloves, and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic.
The muscles on his deeply tanned arms strained where he’d folded them tightly across his chest.
"What?" she asked.
He’d watched her move gingerly across the room, her movements stiff and obviously pained.
His jaw was so tight from biting his tongue these past few days, it had begun to throb with a dull ache.
He knew she’d been pushing too hard, watched her move through the same self-destructive patterns he often fell into himself.
And he had let her. His grip on his own arms tightened as his frustration swelled, tipping into anger — at her, at himself…
He exhaled heavily, trying to calm the building storm within him. “You should rest,” he said, “I'll bring you some food from downstairs.” He made to move for the door when she spoke.
"You don't have to do that. I’m capable of getting my own food."
Vaelin halted abruptly at her tone, scathing and sharp enough to slice bone.
The anger resurfaced as he released a harsh, derisive laugh.
He turned back toward her, his fingers curling into fists.
This aggravating, hypersensitive, human girl was determined to kill herself, apparently.
They stared at each other for a minute, while he fought the urge to snap at her — and lost.
“Why are you so determined to be alone?” he demanded.
Her lips parted as if to respond, but it seemed that for once, she had nothing to say. Heat bleed up the back of his neck.
“Do you think being alone makes you strong?”
“I don’t— ” she stammered. “What are you talking about?”
He felt a muscle in his jaw tick as he ground his teeth. “You don't want my help — you've made that abundantly clear.”
Her left hand reached for her right as though she were about to start spinning that Gods damned ring again. Then she folded her arms across her chest, expression hardening as though she were donning armour.
“I don’t even know you.”
He ignored the venom in her tone, moving toward her slowly. “You’re so determined to be independent, you push everyone away. One of these days, it’s going to get you killed.”
As his words sliced through the room, he stalked forward, intentionally invading her space.
She swallowed. He towered over her, but she lifted her chin defiantly.
He allowed his eyes to flicker briefly over her face, and said with dangerous quiet, “Has it ever occurred to you that insisting on standing alone might actually be the thing that makes you weak?”
Standing this close to her, he heard the sharp intake of breath she took, saw the slight widening of her eyes as his accusation hit its mark. He shook his head, turning away.
He was across the small room in a handful of strides, pulling the door closed behind him.
She glared at the closed door for a moment, huffing a breath of annoyance. At this rate, they’d be lucky if they didn’t kill each other before they even made it to Vaelora, never mind Dunovar.
Still, she rubbed a hand against her chest, as though his words had picked at a scab there she’d refused to acknowledge.
Why are you so determined to be alone? She thought of Cael, stung by Isla always brushing off his offer of help.
Of Oren, pointing out that her overworking was admirable, but teetered on self-harm.
Of the other healers , who she’d never been good at sharing the load with.
She shook her head. What did it matter what Vaelin thought, anyway.
Carefully, she discarded her sword and harness, wincing at the now-familiar burn on her shoulders.
She glanced up at the mirror that hung above the chest of drawers, slightly cracked along the edge.
She turned so that she was looking over her shoulder at her reflection, gingerly tugging the neck of her thin tunic over her shoulder.
She grimaced. The skin of her shoulder was angry and marred where the leather harness had dug in, bruising and blistering the skin.
Gingerly, she brushed a finger over the skin near the wound, wincing at the sting.
The door to the room groaned open again and Isla glanced up at Vaelin in the mirror.
He held a tray of food, his expression even stormier than when he had left.
Then, he had been frustrated, angry even.
Now, he looked apoplectic. His jaw ticked as he stared at the spot on her shoulder where the blisters had bloomed spectacularly.
She released her tunic, letting the fabric slide back into place, concealing the wound.
He blinked, his eyes sliding to meet hers.
For a moment they just stared at each other in silence, Isla’s pulse quickening under his furious gaze.
She wanted to say something, to tell him to mind his own damn business, but her tongue felt frozen in her mouth.
He dropped the tray on the nearby table, the clanging of the dish ware making Isla jump. Stew sloshed over the side of the bowl. Still, neither of them spoke.
“Eat.” He commanded brusquely, in a tone that brooked no argument. And then he was turning and slamming the door, leaving the wood rattling in his wake.