Chapter 15
Thealina
A pulsing ache rattles through my brain. The side of my head tender and throbbing as my fingertips tentatively poke and prod around the stitched wound. An embarrassing, husky moan vibrates my throat and haunts my ears. Embarrassing because I feel eyes on me.
Rafe’s eyes.
“Easy now,” he says, holding his hands out ready to steady me as my body fights the aches and pain and fatigue, jerking as I sit up.
“We had a heavy landing. That’s on me. I do apologise you got hurt.”
An apology by someone who has a penis and testicles hanging between their legs. Well, I never.
“I can almost hear your mouthy response,” he smirks, though his eyes seem sad and wary.
Colours, smells and sounds filter through the haze. Wood, lots of wood. Wooden walls, floors, furniture—a small cabin type home it seems. Open-planned kitchen in the corner, couch beneath me in front of the hearth, and a tidy bed on the other side of the room.
It’s nice, cosy even, but none of Rafe’s personality shines through.
Embers flicker in the hearth, a soup or stew bubbling in the hanging cauldron above. Scents of lamb, and rosemary, mix with the sharp notes of spice and mint—Teatree. Bringing the fingertips I used to prod my wound to my nose, I inhale the potent, medicinal oil.
My ears absorb all the different noises—a faint trickling of water seeps through the half-opened sash window, an owl’s hoots, a slight breeze rustling some foliage outside, the wood in the hearth spitting, and the deep, steady breaths of a now fully dressed Rafe, who perches on the table in front of me. His knees touching mine.
“How do you feel?” He asks, bringing the back of his hand to my forehead. “Hot, cold, tired, sore?”
He seems jittery. Fighting the blanket off me, I search for my book and quill, except I don’t appear to be wearing my dress.
Rafe points to the back of the couch, to my cut-up dress. I swing my head back to him, narrowing my brows, his palms fly up.
“There was no looking. No touching. I did what I had to. You were shaking. Cold and wet. Bleeding. A breath away from deaths door.”
Quit being dramatic. I roll my eyes, wincing at the sting of my cut.
“I know, I know, I’m being dramatic.” He squeezes his eyes between his thumb and index finger.
Where’s my book and quill?
I can’t find it no matter how many times I pat around my dress and the couch. Rafe twists his body to reach behind him and present me with not my book and quill, but the bottle containing the milky fluid—the linking serum.
Where’s my fucking stuff, Rafe!?
I lunge up between his bent knees with my fists pumping and my jaw clenched. He sits on the table, and with the several inches of height I have on him in this moment, I feel strong, powerful, lethal, ready to take him down and make him suffer if he doesn’t return my belongings.
Sureness empowers me… until my trousers slide down, exposing my bare legs. Luckily the dark tunic is as long as my usual shift, covering my most intimate parts that are almost eye level with Rafe.
My feet become stuck in the spot I stand, my whole body frozen as awkwardness replaces my extremely short-lived confidence.
Rafe sniffs and grunts, leans back and unbuckles his brown leather belt, he whips it out in one fluid motion. And I? I just gawk at being man-handled—or taken care of—by someone I’ve only known for several days.
Keeping his eyes to the right of me, he yanks up the trousers, bunching them at my waist with one hand, and threads the belt through with the other.
He’s rough and jerky at one point and I steady myself by holding his shoulder, his corded muscle tensing beneath my palm, though he’s still careful not to hurt me as he buckles it tight, needing to create another hole to accommodate my shrinking frame.
My skin shivers as his fingers graze the bare skin of my stomach, making my core pulse.
His tight jaw and pulsing neck vein tell me he’s annoyed, angry maybe.
Which pisses me off seeing as I’m the one stolen in the night, I’m the one with a bloody gash on my head, and I’m the one without a fucking voice!
Be that of my tongue or my book and quill.
He’s taken another voice from me, and it hurts.
Rafe stands, gripping my upper arms, his heavy breaths floating over my skin. Something flickers through his eyes, he squeezes them shut, shaking his head like something crawled into his brain. I grip his face, bringing his gaze back to me. His eyes full of sorrow.
And horror.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his struggle to look at me cuts deep, until he loosens his grip, twisting around to pull out a small side drawer of the table.
My book and quill.
It shakes in his trembling hands.
“I wasn’t thinking, Lina. I didn’t mean to take something else from you. I will cut off my own hands before it ever happens again.”
He places my stuff in my hands, and although I’ve only been using it for such a short time, it’s like a security blanket now.
‘What’s wrong with you? Why you so dramatic?’
His laugh is deep and sardonic. “It’s been quite the evening,” his eyes fixate on something behind me, another shadow crosses his eyes and his pupils shrink. “Quite the evening indeed.”
I glance over my shoulder; nothing but an empty bed. Rafe’s smiling when I turn back, this one genuine and… beautiful. I can’t stop my own from blossoming, it feels good. Great even, it’s been a while since I felt my cheeks lift like this.
“Please, sit. You had a bump to the head.” He ushers me back onto the couch, stalking over to the kitchen to grab a tray, piling on a couple bowls, spoons, hunks of bread and some butter, before returning to the hearth to dish up some food from the cauldron.
It does smell glorious.
“You need to eat. And I may have something favourable for afters.”
I don’t waste any time with the stew, though I leave the lamb and bread, not wanting Rafe to see how I use my baby finger to push it to the back of my throat to swallow.
Liquids are easier.
He observes me from the other end of the couch as I slurp the liquid.
‘Good soup.’
He laughs, spooning his food as I put down my book and resume drinking. This is glorious. One of the tastiest meals I’ve ever drank. The man could be a better cook than me, and I am good.
“Lina, we need to have some real conversations if I’m to help you.”
Oh right, yes, what did he say again… ‘You get it, we talk some more. That is all I can agree to right now.’
Ok. I nod my agreement. I owe him that I suppose.
“There’s no pressure,” he picks up the bottle of linking serum, turning it over in his trembling hands. He swallows and loses a little colour. I sense where this is going.
“It would be easier. If you’re scared about what’s in it, I’ll take the first sip and show there’s nothing to fear.”
Placing the bowl on the table, I lean closer to the bottle. My own hands find my quill.
‘How does it link us exactly? What do you know?’
“Purely our chosen thoughts, nothing else. It isn’t like a mating bond where you hear almost everything in a mate’s mind. I won’t feel your emotions or pain. Only thoughts of your choosing.”
It makes me nervous. I have a lot of thoughts, what if something I don’t want him to hear slips through.
“It unnerves me too, got a lot of bad jokes up here,” he chuckles, tapping the side of his head, making me smile.
‘How long does it last?’
“Now that is something I don’t know. Judging by the quantity in the bottle, several hours I’d say.”
It would make things easier, I suppose.
‘You first.’
His breath of relief is palpable, and he wastes no time popping the cork, bringing the bottle to his lips and tips it back to pour a healthy swig. I watch, mesmerised by the movement of his throat as he swallows.
“It’s thick like cream, sweet like camomile,” he shrugs, passing the bottle. I’m not exactly keen on camomile, but I do like cream.
It’s weighty in my hands, I give it a sniff, and notes of camomile is there and something else, something earthy.
‘Let’s give it ten minutes, I’m not convinced your bowels won’t explode.’
He barks a laugh, and I’m glad I loosen up his tense shoulders.
“Very well. I’ll be test subject zero.”
The chuckle rumbles in my throat, but I hold on to it, refusing to let the warped noise escape, and send him running for the hills. He notices, and glances at his now empty bowl, nibbling his bottom lip and furrowing his brows, the lines on his forehead make him seem a few years older.
“I have a confession.” His whispered words send a chill down my spine. “I saw.” He returns his eyes to me, filled with nothing but sadness and understanding. “When I was cleaning you up, your mouth fell open, and I saw what someone had done to you.”
My breathing stutters, my heart thumps, my body freezes.
“Lina, tell me, please. Who hurt you?”
Unable to take his pity for a second more, I rip my gaze away and stand, placing my things in the side pocket of the trousers he dressed me in. The thought stops me in my tracks. That was actually one of the nicest things a man has done for me.
‘Thank you for taking care of me, but I do need to leave.’
“No, you needed my help remember.”
‘Just tell me what I need to know.’
Rafe marches behind me. “Lina, please. You said we could talk. Take a second before you do something stupid and reckless again!”
Stupid and reckless? Again?
Stupid and reckless.
I am so sick to the death of men branding women anything other than strong, resilient, robust. Instead, we’re labelled as weak, over-animated, hysterical, belonging in the fucking kitchen, or on her back, or on her fucking knees!
Creamy camomile infused with earthy tones hit what’s left of my buds as I force down the serum and slam the bottle back on the table. Assurance swims through my veins giving me the strength to square up to this sturdy man who is at least a foot taller than my 5’5 frame.
‘Stupid and reckless? Or brave and determined?’
I yell my thoughts as loud as I can, hoping to smash a few of his braincells, and with the way he winces and rubs his head, I may have succeeded.
“Shit,” he blinks several times, lips lifting with a relieved smile. “You’re right.”
‘Well, that was easy.’
He snickers, rubbing his chest. His heart. “You are remarkable.”
‘Stop. You’re weirding me out.’ My flesh tingles.
“Is ‘weirding’ even a word?”
I shrug, ‘It is now.’
“Well, hear this. You are brave and beautiful. Strong and stubborn. Determined and defiant… and I…”
‘Enough, Rafe.’
“Not used to compliments, huh. I’m assuming your husband did this to you then?” He uses his index finger to gesture his mouth. “Is he the reason you want to go back? Tell me, Lina.”
He steps closer, pushing a fallen strand of hair behind my ear, his touch and spicy scent stirs something deep inside me.
“I’m not saying these things to hurt you, but I need to know. If I’m to help you, I need to know what I’m stepping into.”
‘That sounds an awful lot like you’re coming with me?’
“That’s exactly how it sounds.” His voice is deep and dark, a touch of danger and need for revenge hiding behind his tone, but not aimed at me, but for me.
Lunging into his arms right now so desperately sings to my soul. He has no idea what kind of lifeline he’s thrown me. He steps further into my space, but I don’t step back, I welcome him in, wondering what he’ll do next.
His unsure arms come up around me, slowly, gently, so damn tenderly a rogue tear escapes and trickles down my cheek. He cups the back of my head, and I press my face into his chest.
‘Thank you.’
“I am so sorry, Lina,” he whispers, though something in his voice tells me there’s more to that than I know.