46. Willow
Chapter 46
Willow
L egion steps inside, closing the door with a heavy exhale. I watch him cautiously, still unsure what to make of him in this unfamiliar setting. He doesn’t look at me, instead taking a quick lap around the room. His graceful fingers traverse the wall every few steps as if listening for something. Curious, I mimic his actions, but it feels like an ordinary stone wall.
“Good,” he murmurs to himself. “Good.”
With another exhale, he crosses to the window and throws it open. A blast of cold air rushes in, carrying the tang of salt and the faint whisper of distant waves. Something in his posture relaxes, the taut line of his shoulders easing slightly. The wind tugs at his long, silken hair, sending it dancing around his face like living shadows.
I glance between Legion and the wall, then back to him. “What’s the deal with the walls?”
He answers without looking at me, his voice tight, “I had to be sure the resonance network didn’t extend to this room.”
“Resonance stones,” I mutter. “The bane of my existence.”
It clicks into place—the whispering walls outside, the feeling of being watched. The stone must be mined here.
“Ah,” I say, a slow grin forming. “You wanted privacy for us.”
“Obviously,” he says, his tone clipped.
“Right. But you also wanted privacy. For the one bed.”
“Having anyone listen to our conversations is not an option.”
His brow furrows as he eyes the bed. I’m just teasing, but still—it’s a bed. I make a running leap and land with a bounce on my side, hand on my head, grinning. I watch his back as he glares out the window, his shoulders set rigidly.
“Our conversation ,” I tease, my voice taking on a sultry edge. “Is that what people are calling it these days?”
He does a double-take, looking at me strangely. Then, understanding dawns, and to my amazement, a faint blush colors his pale cheeks before he quickly looks away.
I gasp, sitting up. “Did you just blush?”
“No,” comes his curt reply, but I know what I saw.
“You did!” I slide over the bed, getting to my knees. “You went all pinkish in the cheeks.” I lower my voice conspiratorially. “What was it about what I said that made you blush? You, a Sluagh whose favorite pastime before I came along was watching people ‘do it’ for research purposes?”
Legion’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. The blush deepens, spreading to the tips of his pointed ears poking through his black hair. He faces me, dark eyes glittering with an unreadable emotion.
“You misunderstand the nature of our . . . observations,” he says, his voice low and husky.
I lean in closer, drawn by the sudden intensity of his gaze. “Then enlighten me, oh wise one. What exactly is the nature of your . . . observations . . . if it wasn’t to learn how to, how did Fox say it—pleasure me?”
The air between us sizzles. He opens his mouth to speak, but a sharp knock at the door shatters the moment.
We freeze, staring at each other.
The second knock is more insistent. Legion grunts in annoyance, strides to the door, and flings it open. Earl Larkspur stands outside with the steward and two staff members.
“Knight Commander,” the Earl says urgently.
“Earl,” Legion replies curtly.
“I brought comforts for you and your Shadow to enjoy during your stay.” Legion’s lips flatten; he clearly doesn’t appreciate the intrusion. But there’s something in the Earl’s eyes that strikes a compassionate chord within me.
I sit on the bed, waiting for Legion’s lead.
“Very well,” Legion says, waving them in. The Earl glances around with barely concealed distaste before gesturing for the servants to enter. They bring food, drink, fresh clothes, and a wooden bathtub, which they place between the bed and the wall. They fill it with hot, rose-scented water and leave. I eye it warily—it’s not too deep.
The Earl hesitates at the door.
“Is there something more?” Legion asks impatiently.
After dismissing his staff, the Earl confesses, “I would like a private word with my Knight Commander before the Shining Host gathers tomorrow for breakfast.”
After a beat, Legion says, “As you wish.”
The Earl hands Legion a card. “If it pleases you, here is a map to my chambers. Wait a few minutes, then join me there. Ensure no one sees you.”
“Understood,” Legion answers. When the door closes, he studies the card briefly before collecting his jacket.
“I thought he said to wait,” I remind him.
“Bolt the door when I leave,” he instructs. “I should not be longer than one turn of the hourglass. It is late; we’re all tired. In the meantime, enjoy the bath.”
I stare at the water apprehensively. Didn’t Bob once say that he saw a Nightmare crawl out of a puddle?
Legion huffs, but to my surprise, he doesn’t berate me. Instead, he neatly folds his jacket, places it on the bed, and approaches the tub. He tests the water, swirling long fingers through the surface. When he brings two fingers to his lips to taste the bathwater, his expression is no longer bashful but dark and intense.
“Get undressed,” he instructs, his voice low and commanding. “And into the tub.”
I swallow hard, my heart racing.
Legion picks up a washcloth, turning it over before looking at me through lowered lashes.
“The Earl is waiting, Willow,” he says, his tone softening slightly. “And I’m not leaving until you are cleaned, fed, healed, and resting.”
I nod, still fixated on the water.
“That tub isn’t big enough for both of us,” I observe, a hint of disappointment slipping into my voice.
He chuckles softly, a sound that surprises me. These glimpses of vulnerability feel like rare gifts, ones I doubt even his hive sees.
“Quickly,” he says gently. He turns his back to me.
I undress and slide into the bath. A sigh escapes me as the heat soothes my aching muscles.
Before facing me again, Legion takes a deep breath as if steeling himself. He kneels beside the tub and dips his hand into the water, his eyes locking with mine. “Are you well?”
“I think as long as I’m not alone, I’m not afraid,” I admit.
“You’ll never be alone again,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He gently massages my foot, healing the blisters and aches. I let out an embarrassingly blissful sound.
He bathes me with reverence, swiping the cloth over my body. The scrape contrasts with the easy glide of water. His scent blooms thicker in the steam—something sweet, floral, peppery, and with amber undertones. I wasn’t aware a scent could feel warm, but it glides into my lungs like whiskey.
I don’t want to ruin the beauty of this moment by saying something stupid or needy. Like asking why he keeps his distance from me. The worry seems so unfounded when he’s like this. There’s something sweet and unguarded in his eyes. The look on his face is hard to explain, but it’s almost like taking care of me is refilling the well of his soul. He worships me. Is energized by me.
Once he’s tended to all my wounds, the wall between us slowly rebuilds. He dries his hands and dons his jacket wordlessly. He holds out a towel for me, but his eyes don’t meet mine as I step out. As I step into his arms, his gaze fixes somewhere over my shoulder, near the window. He wraps the towel around me. His hands rest briefly on my shoulders, tense with unspoken emotion. Then, the warmth of his body disappears, and he mutters a reminder about bolting the door before slipping out.
The room feels colder without his presence. I stand there, wrapped in the towel, water droplets running down my legs. The rose scent from the bath overtakes his lingering aroma, pushed in by the crisp night breeze. I shut the window with a frown, mourning the loss of his scent.
“Willow,” he warns from outside.
I startle. “Yes?”
“Bolt the door.” I move to obey but pause, my hand on the door’s surface. “What if I fall asleep and can’t let you back in?”
“Then I will wait out here until you wake.”
A smile tugs at my lips. When the bolt’s heavyweight slides into place, I hear his footsteps recede. I dry myself and slip into the bed—the only bed—and try not to fall asleep, savoring the lingering warmth of his touch and the memory of his unguarded gaze.