36. Bea
BEA
Iwake to the earth groaning and the hair on my arms standing on end. There’s a cry—a wail—and a feeling that someone is calling out to me.
I rise to my elbows, blinking the sleep from my eyes. There’s another moan coming from downstream.
“Hello?” I call out, scrambling to my feet. I peer into the darkness, my eyes struggling to adjust now that the light of the fire is behind me. “Is someone there?”
The After pulses, its rhythm in beat with my pounding heart. Through the mist, a sliver of black, darker than the rest, appears.
“Helllppp meeee,” The voice is human, but not.
Raspy and pained, as if the person is uttering the words with their dying breath, and it hits me like a knife straight into my chest. I do not have a single rational thought.
I only react; I’m in the water, in less than a second, fighting to get to the voice.
“Helllpppp meeee,” they beg again.
“I’m coming!” I surge forward, but I do not make it far before my chain catches, and I fall, cursing under my breath. “Brennen!” I shout, scrambling to my feet. He emerges less than a second later, his eyes wide and hair messy.
“There’s someone down there. They were crying for help, but I can’t reach them!” My voice is panicked, on the edge of hysteria, because I can’t hear them anymore. Are we already too late?
Brennen runs into the water without hesitation. “Where are they?”
“In the mist!”
Brennen pulls his shirt off, muscles rippling as he throws it onto dry land and dives into the deep part of the river.
He stands as he nears the After, moving to the side and peering into the black.
“Hello?” he shouts, but the smear of dark is gone. The After calms, receding. He looks back at me.
“I swear I heard someone. They were right there!”
He takes another minute to search, creeping closer to the drop hidden by the black shadows, avoiding touching their long, trailing fingers as he peers into the darkness.
“There’s no one here,” he repeats, taking his time to wade back to shore.
“Could they have fallen down?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat. What would An Glèidheadair do if a living soul fell in front of his gate?
“I dinnae think so. The water level is low today. It’s too shallow before the drop.”
I shake my head, my mouth going dry. “But I heard them. Someone was there.”
Brennen grabs his shirt, returning to the tent. I follow behind, but he closes the flaps, blocking me out. The sound of wet clothes falling to the ground meets my ears, and my breath hitches, the realization that he’s—
I lock my gaze onto the fire, trying not to picture his bare corded arms or the way his waist dips into a V at his hips. How taut and toned his stomach is.
My heart rate picks up as the flaps open again.
“If there was, they’re dead,” he says, completely unaware of where my mind has just gone.
“No one survives the transition into the After. An Glèidheadair would kill them on the spot,” he says, answering my unspoken question.
He holds an arm out to indicate I should come in.
He’s wearing dry clothes, but his lips are tinged blue.
I grab several more sticks and throw them onto the fire, but I don’t enter the tent.
He quirks an eyebrow. “Prefer to stay soaked?”
I press my lips together and take a tentative step inside, eyes flicking toward the After.
There was someone there. I can still feel them.
But even more, I’m suddenly aware of the space between Brennen and me.
Or lack thereof. My body refuses to move deeper into the tent.
For some reason, even with whatever is lurking in the dark, being in the small space with him feels terrifying. Too much. Too close.
“I don’t want to get your bedding all wet.”
His eyes fall to my soaked dress and stop.
My skin burns with awareness, his gaze locked onto the fabric clinging to my breasts, outlining more than I would like.
My breaths tighten, the movement of my chest beneath my dress causing a rush of shivers through my sensitive skin.
His throat bobs, and he looks away abruptly, as if severing a thought mid-sentence.
He rubs the cut on his palm, moving to a stack of clothing and shuffling through it.
He hardly seems to notice what he’s chosen, handing me a long-sleeved green tunic and stepping out of the tent, all the while avoiding my gaze.
I stand there in shock. He’d given me his shirt.
A new, thick shirt not covered in stains and mud.
I lift it to my nose, taking a deep breath, and the scent of juniper, smoke, and metal wraps around me—the smell of Brennen.
I’ve caught hints of it on the wind when he’s standing upstream, but smelling it like this makes my head swim.
The cloth is extraordinarily soft, and I rub it against my cheek.
For just a moment, an image of Brennen wearing the shirt flashes through my mind. The scent enveloping me because his arms are wrapping around me. Because he’s—
No. I shake my head, forcing the thought from my mind. Why am I thinking this way? Picturing him touching me. Actually viewing me as more than his duty. Why now, when I haven’t even thought of a man in more years than many people live?
Is it just his proximity? The fact that there has been a strong man, a warrior, so close for weeks now? Or is it that he’s not just a warrior, but a man of honor? Someone with more depth than I could have imagined behind the wall of anger he arrived with. A wall I’m beginning to see the cracks in.
I swallow, nodding to myself. That has to be it. Brennen is a good man, and I have been starved of male attention for a century. It’s natural to react this way. Or at least, I tell myself it is.
Pretending the clothing isn’t even his, I step out of my wet dress and pull the tunic on, adding my clothes to Brennen’s pile. The tunic is far too large, comically loose and hanging to my knees, and I try not to think about how muscular his arms and chest must be to fill it out so nicely.
I try to push the thought away, but I cannot pretend the clothes aren’t his.
My breaths go shallow. It’s too intimate.
Undeniably so, and my cheeks flush as I open the tent flaps and move back to my bed, sliding beneath my blanket as quickly as I can.
I do not look at Brennen, but I feel his eyes on me as he returns to his tent.
My stomach twists, but I ignore it, pulling the blanket over my head and staring into the After, searching for the blot of black I’m certain was there.
For anything to prove I’m not going mad once again.