Chapter 11 #3
My back teeth ground together, hiding the fear I truly did feel. Life hummed in my veins, hammering my heart, the heat of the fire flushing under my cloak, dampening my skin. I held his gaze, giving nothing away as energy pulsated around us.
“Onyx?” A woman’s voice broke through our silent battle. He dropped his hand, scooting back on his stool, his head twisting up to the beautiful woman standing next to him, holding two ale pitchers in one hand and mugs in the other.
Appearing in her mid to late twenties, she was dressed in a worn brown linen dress, her long dark hair braided back, her figure lean, like she worked more than she ate.
Runes were tattooed over her hands for wealth, prosperity, and protection.
Her arms were strong from carrying heavy pitchers around, her aura looking like she could hold her own with a rowdy group, yet she stared at my companion like he could bring her to her knees.
Her eyes were almost plum-colored.
“Onyx . . .”’ She swallowed, her eyes glowing as they rolled over him, almost dropping the mugs in her hand. “You’re back.” Her voice filled with a dreamlike wonder. “It’s been so long . . . I—I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“Frida.” He dipped his head, an aloofness clipping his tone. “Good to see you.”
A smile bloomed, making her features light up the room. Her awe turned straight to desire, touching him like she knew exactly what he looked like naked, had experienced how he felt inside her.
Irritation prickled at the back of my neck, my gaze dancing between the pair, picking up on the mismatched energy. She did not hide how she felt, while he kept his expression indifferent.
“We’d like to order some drink and food.” He nodded at the pitcher of ale in her hand.
She blinked, taken back by his reserved countenance.
It lasted only a moment before she leaned over him, letting her breasts brush his arm.
She set down a mug, pouring him ale. “I know exactly what you like to eat.” She didn’t bother keeping her voice down, knowing perfectly well I could hear her.
“And how you devour like a starving man.”
My lips parted in shock at her brazenness, ire spearing through my bones. I sat right next to him; how did she know he wasn’t my lover?
The instant that thought entered my mind, shame burned through my skin, making me sweat under the wool. I shivered like I could fling the idea out of my head. She can gladly have him.
Sitting back, I folded my arms. His gaze darted to me, that tick in his jaw setting off.
“Me and my . . . companion,” he struggled to mutter the word, “just need food, and a room for the night if available.”
Her attention finally traveled to me, assessing what she could under my hooded cloak. A frown twisted up her smile, her demeanor shifting. Defensive. Hostile.
“I will check with min mor.” She swallowed, trying to keep her expression even, but I spotted the flicker of hurt, the disappointment dropping her shoulders.
“Thank you,” he replied, as a younger version of Frida slipped in, dropping bowls of porridge and bread in front of us.
“Onyx!” The adolescent grinned at him. “You’re back.”
“Just passing through,” he replied, but I could hear a slight softness in his tone.
“Go ask your mormor if there is an extra room upstairs.” Frida nudged the young girl.
She nodded, disappearing into the crowd.
“Can I get you anything else?” Frida’s throat bobbed, her attention flicking to me.
Envy, hate, and pain raged in her eyes.
“No, thank you.” He addressed her with no emotion.
He might as well have slapped her, his dismissal locking up her muscles, her happiness wiped away, replaced by a harder woman. A woman that fit this place better.
She dipped her head and strode away.
He drank down some of the ale she poured only for him before digging into the porridge. I stared at him, the scent of overcooked barley wafting up my nose.
“Her eyes.” My statement was more a question. “They’re more purple than black.” Just like the men at Beggar’s Hole.
“Over generations people in the Shadow Rift have adapted their sight to the twilight here. It’s no different than having light blue or dark eyes, depending on where you live.”
I peered over at the woman in question. Across the room she still watched the Northerner intently.
“A lover of yours?”
His glower slid to me for a brief second. He took another bite of food, his attention moving over the room, noticing everything going on.
“Frida seemed quite—”
A growl cut off my sentence.
“I’m just saying, if you need to take care of things . . .”
He inhaled and exhaled, his energy daggering the air.
“I think she really likes you.” A smile played on my lips, toying with him.
Another growl. “Eat.”
I scooped up my steaming porridge, not waiting for it to cool down. The first real sustenance I had had in days. I shoved the scorching porridge into my mouth.
And almost spit it back out.
It was bitter, burnt, and stale. My tastebuds cringed against the sour taste, struggling to swallow down the oats sticking in my throat.
Not thinking, I snatched the cup from his hand, drinking down the remaining ale.
The acidic, strong taste of fermented barley replaced the other, burning my nose, causing me to recoil and cough.
His hand stayed in the air like he was holding the mug, gawking at me. Stunned I would dare touch something of his . . . drink from the same cup.
Only a few days before, I would have gagged at the idea of using the same mug as the thrall. That my lips touched the same spot.
Swallowing back the prejudice still prickling my skin, I forced down the last drops of bitter ale. Wiping my mouth, I placed the cup back into his hand, my gaze never leaving his.
A challenge. A dare.
The tendon in his jaw twitched, which warmed me along with the alcohol. It felt comforting in an odd way, that I could invoke something in him.
He heaved an exasperated exhale, clanging down the cup and turning back to his food, his attention scouring the room like he was searching for someone.
Probably changed his mind about Frida.
“So, Onyx . . .”
His head snapped to me, his shoulders rising like a fortress. The weight of saying his name felt heavy on my tongue, bearing down on my chest. It created a thread of familiarity between us.
It made him real.
Feeling my blunder, I wanted to reel it back down my throat, never letting the sound infiltrate my mind. But it was too late. It was there, staking claim in the space between us.
“Never say that again.” He bent toward me, his expression hard, his voice threatening. “Wrennlyn.” My name came out in a low rumble. The power of it drove into the base of my spine.
“Eat,” he ordered, then got up from the table and strode away, heading for where I saw Frida and another older woman.
Humiliation and revulsion flushed up to my cheeks, quickly discounting and shoving out my thoughts, turning my complete focus to the food.
I was tired, stressed, and traumatized.
The need to get home watered my eyes, the severe headache of missing my family. My father, my handmaidens . . . even Linnea. I wanted to return to my life before Sarina’s murder. Before I was taken.
Remember that, Wren. Don’t forget who he is. What he has done.
A buzzing still echoed through me as I absently stared at the cooling porridge. My stomach winning out, I scooped more into my mouth, repeating to myself that I would not let the chance to kill him pass me again.