CHAPTER 6

RISSA

Dragging the comb through my hair, I scrape out the knots, tangle by tangle. It's taken a very long time to brush it out, all of it already dried from my bath. My arm aches, but when I finally get the last snarl loosened, I sigh in relief.

I check myself in the mirror on the vanity table before me, shifting my head left and right as I peer into the glass. Both mirror and table are quite plain, the wood painted black like all the rest of the furniture in this room. It makes it look as if everything is always in shadow.

Speaking of a shadow…

My eyes snap to the darkened bulk that suddenly walks into my room. My heart leaps, but I can't fool myself and say it's because he startled me. It's because ever since I woke up, my heart has been doing those leaps every time I look at him.

It's very aggravating.

Setting the comb down, I send him a look of accusation as I eye his reflection in the mirror. "Don't you knock?"

"No," he grunts out.

The big oaf of a man blunders in, letting the door slam shut behind him.

My nose wrinkles as I watch him stomp toward me. "Great Divine, have you always stepped that loudly ?"

Osrik stops and glances down at his booted feet, as if he might stop and ask them. "I'm walking normal," he says with a shrug.

"You practically stampeded," I say snappishly.

He looks up at me then, and though I try not to, I get stuck in his brown gaze. Stuck, like an insect to sap, with no hope of escaping.

Am I going to be trapped forever?

There's been an intensity to him since the moment I woke. It's obvious something has changed. It's like we were both reading the same book, but he went ahead and finished it before me. It feels like he's just waiting for me to catch up, watching me flip every page, staring at me as I go word by word.

"Didn't take you for a reader," I mumble.

"What?"

"Nothing." I clear my throat. "Like I said, you need to knock. You can't just come and go into my private room as you please."

Especially looking like that . He looks masculine and broody, as if he's just finished training some soldiers before riding a horse and then chopping down a tree.

Every single one of those images of Osrik flits through my mind, making butterflies skitter through my stomach.

I wonder if he does chop wood? Maybe I could be near a window to watch…

"Yes, I can," he retorts before setting down a trunk I hadn't even noticed he was carrying. It lands with a thump at his feet, the brass handles clinking. "Clothes for you."

I try very hard not to watch the way his arms flex, bare and on display from where his sleeves are cut at the shoulders. "Thanks, but no, you can't —"

Before I can finish, he leans over and spins my stool around so we're face to face. My breath pauses, and I'm caught in those eyes again.

"Yes, I can." We're inches apart, but he watches me like he's closer. Like he's all the way under my skin.

And he is.

Not that I'm going to admit it.

But I was told he stayed by my bedside every single day—nearly every single minute . That he was so devoted to me he barely ate or slept. That sort of bedside vigilance goes way past simple attraction.

Doesn't it?

His voice drops down and scrapes out with the grim look on his face. "You were almost dead, Yellow Bell. Hours ago, I was fucking saying goodbye to you."

There's a lump in my throat the size of his fist, with emotion I haven't been able to unstopper. Haven't been able to clear away.

When I opened my eyes from my deathbed, Osrik was staring at me like I was a ghost. Like I was a gift. Then he buried his face into my hair and wrapped his arms around me and made me feel something I haven't ever felt before.

Safe.

Which is funny, considering I was dying, until, suddenly, I wasn't.

My thoughts keep veering back to Auren, because unlike me, I don't know if she's safe. Osrik told me what happened after I was stabbed. How she was taken, how King Rot went to save her. Now she's a realm away, apparently.

And a fae .

Admittedly, I'm not sure I truly believe him. Then again…I saw her use that gold magic. It certainly seemed otherworldly.

Being awake feels more like a dream. Like all of this isn't real. I'm still trying to make sense of everything, trying to settle into this new normal. It's as if the entire world changed that night I was attacked.

The flashback of that blade stabbing into me flickers through my mind, and I shudder unintentionally from the phantom pain.

Osrik's eyes drop down to my chest, but not for the usual reason that men look there. He's staring at the edge of the scar that's visible over the top of my nightdress. I follow his gaze, my finger grazing the healed slice. It's tender, and my chest twinges a bit, but other than some overall achiness, I feel fine.

Physically, at least.

It's emotionally and mentally that has me all mixed up. The reason for which is right in front of me. I need to stop this now before he scrambles my mind even more.

"I didn't die," I tell him, my tone defensive. "So you can stop this."

His gaze lifts to mine and he cocks his head. "Stop what exactly?"

I motion between us. "I know what this is. You felt guilty. That's why you were at my bedside night and day. You felt guilty that I was attacked, because you're the captain of the army and in charge of the security of the castle and I was hurt. But I free you of that burden of guilt," I say, forcing my tone to stay even. To not crack. "It wasn't your fault. So you can stop hovering over me. I'm perfectly fine now, thanks to that girl who healed me. You don't need to worry about me anymore. Consider me out of your messy hair."

A foul frown creases his face. "There were so many fucked up things in that little speech, I don't even know where to start."

I rear back. "Excuse me?"

He sighs, as if I'm the insane one. I worry about the sort of people he's spending time with if he's this bad at judging mental stability.

In one fluid motion, he reaches down and plucks me from my seat, making my heart leap in surprise as he carries me across the room. "What are you doing?" I demand as my hands go around his neck, fingers tangling in the long length of his coarse, dark brown hair.

Without answering, he sits down on the sofa in the corner of the room and settles me on his lap. My heart pounds so hard I can feel the bruising from the healed wound.

He holds me delicately, which is so at odds with his gruff strength. It makes my heart twinge for a completely different reason. The way he looks at me, keeping my gaze so thoroughly captive, it's like he's bound me with rope.

"I know things are a lot right now," he says, surprising me again. "Because we were fighting this thing between us, and then before we could set it straight, you were attacked and nearly died."

He chews out that last word like he wants to grind it to dust.

"But while you were fighting for your life, unconscious, I was very fucking conscious . I watched every minute of your suffering. But I wasn't sitting there just for fucking guilt. You want to know what I felt?"

"What?" I ask breathlessly, unable to even attempt to be snippy.

"So fucking devastated that I was going to lose you," he replies, stark honesty rumbling out of his gravelly voice. "That I was going to lose you before I could tell you that I love you."

Breath sucks in between my lips, my eyes widening as I stare at him. " Love ?"

He pauses and studies my face like his dark brown eyes are soaking up every inch of me. "Yes, Rissa Bell. I fucking love you."

My mind sputters, heart skipping. "But…we barely know each other. We've barely spent any time together," I say in a rush, looking around like excuses are going to start falling onto the floor so I can pick them all up. "We can't even stand each other!"

He smirks. "We like the fire. We each don't back down to the other, and we like it that way. So don't lie and try to act like we can't stand each other, because we both know that's not true."

My pulse feels like there are a thousand birds taking flight within every vein, fluttering all over.

"You almost died," he says again. "And I'll never fucking forget how close it was. Just like I won't waste any more time now that we've gotten a second chance. We can't fight this anymore, Rissa. I'm claiming you as mine."

I stare at him. Mouth opening and closing like a struggling fish. "Are you out of your mind? You can't just… claim me !" I say shrilly.

"I just did."

My back stiffens. "I am an independent woman. I decide who to be with."

"You'll decide to be with me."

My teeth grind. "You cocky son of a bitch."

"And yours ."

" Mine ?" I scoff and try to slap his hand away from my waist, but he pays the swat no mind, his touch still holding me. "What, you're mine until we have a real argument one day that actually pisses you off, where you get to storm off as your big captain-of-the-army important self, leaving me here to wait while you go and find a saddle at a brothel house to fuck?"

His expression darkens. "No," he growls. "I said I'm claiming you, and I mean it. You think I give a fuck if you argue with me? If you piss me off? You think I'd be such a piece of shit to go fuck someone else out of spite?"

"That's what men do to their wives," I spit. "Either after an argument or because they're suddenly bored of them, or just because they can. I know, because I used to be one of those saddles at a brothel house that they came to. I know exactly what men are like."

"Those are weak men. You think I'm weak?"

My eyes drop down to his arms, all rippled with hardened muscle. I don't even know when I started gripping them, but I know they're keeping me balanced. Keeping me upright. And I also know no one could ever look at him and say he's weak.

"I don't know what to think," I admit, shaking my head like I can clear it. I try to hold onto my defensive anger, but it slips off anyway. "I woke up and now all of this…"

He lifts a hand and gently smooths a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers barely brushing against my skin like he's afraid he'll scrape me. The gesture makes me want to cry. Makes me soften toward him even more. Then he pulls me forward until my head is resting against his shoulder and tucking me in.

Safe.

"I know, Yellow Bell," he murmurs.

He smells of leather. Of trees. Of dirt and sweat and musk. He smells all man and I thought I'd hate that, but after years of scenting the pompous perfumes of prettified nobles, I prefer the natural rawness of it.

"I'm scared," I whisper against his neck, fingers gripping his skin.

"I know that too."

A tear slips from the corner of my eye and drips down his leather shirt. "You can't love me," I tell him, my voice full of denial.

"I can."

No argument. No added detail. Just a vow.

"You don't want me really," I argue.

"I do."

"You won't always."

"I will."

I can, I do, I will.

His promises drum in my ears, and I want to trust them—trust him —so desperately. He isn't what I ever envisioned. He isn't what I thought I wanted. But my heart aches at just the thought of him suddenly not being here. Of him not wanting me anymore. The thought of leaving now, of finding some remote part of Orea to live alone, makes my stomach churn. I can't bear it.

How did that happen?

I lift my head so I can look at him, one last chance to see if there's any deceit in his eyes. There isn't.

"Are we a mistake?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't mock me. Doesn't get mad. Instead, he rubs my back with tenderness. "Like I told you before, you're the best mistake I want to make. Over and over again. For the rest of our lives. So what do you say?"

My eyes burn, and the feeling goes all the way into my chest, settling deep.

Emotions churn wildly, but I know the answer, know what I want, even though I shouldn't want it. Yet whatever happened between us on that deathbed has changed us, and I realize that he's right—I can't fight it anymore.

I don't want to.

I let out a breath and then reach up to grip his beard hard, making sure I have his attention and that he knows I'm deadly serious. " Don't let me down , Osrik. Don't you dare, ever , make me regret this," I demand harshly, delving into his brown gaze, sticking him just like he's stuck me.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "You threatening me, Yellow Bell?"

"I absolutely am."

I release his beard as his hands come up to cup my face. " Good ," he says. "Because the two of us? We threaten anything that might try to tear us apart—including each other."

I swallow hard at the praise in his tone. "You won't let me down?" I press.

"Never, Rissa," he replies firmly. "I will never, ever make you fucking regret this."

My breath sucks in at the potency of his promise. Then I nod out a shaky breath. "Alright then."

He cocks a brow. "That's it? Just, alright then ?"

My eyes narrow. "Is that not up to your standards, Captain? Would you like me to say something prettier? Perhaps you'll also request a foot massage or for me to dance around you in nothing but your vest?"

"Now that is a nice picture," he says, and my lips press into a hard line. "But no."

"No?"

"You speak and act and feel however the fuck you want."

That's not something a man has ever told me. It was always do this , wear that , pander right down to the smallest detail for a client. Being a royal saddle, there was no room for error. No space for a single slip. I had to be on, or I would be out.

"It's okay," Osrik rumbles. "Just be you."

I want to scoff, but I suppress the urge, because…maybe I truly can be me. Maybe with him, everything can be different. So instead, I fall into this impulsive wave of longing, and I lean forward and kiss him.

Because that's what I've wanted to do since the moment I woke up.

My kiss doesn't catch him by surprise. It feels like he's been waiting for me all along. His lips part for me, and they're surprisingly soft. I flick my tongue against the wooden piercing through his bottom lip and feel the texture of his scratchy beard against my face.

He cradles the back of my head with one hand and splays the other against my spine like he wants to prove he'll always be here to hold me up.

Kissing him is like the first sip of warmed mead during a snowstorm. He heats me from the inside out, making me want another gulp, another taste, more and more, even when I've drained the cup.

He makes me want to keep drinking him down forever.

"Rissa Bell…" he murmurs, lips pulling slightly away, even as I try to chase them down. "I will kiss you for fucking ever, but you just woke up from your deathbed hours ago and you need to rest…"

"I can't rest," I say, shaking my head. "I don't want to rest."

"What do you want?"

The question suspends in the inches between our faces, holding between our gazes.

What do I want?

I've asked myself that many times throughout my life.

What did I want when I was a young girl with dead parents?

To eat. To feel safe. My options were to find work or marry, and I didn't want to marry. Not after I saw what marrying did for my mother. Loneliness, arguing, and the occasional black eye.

So I became a saddle instead. There wasn't much else I could do, and since I was always told how pretty of a girl I was, I used that beauty to my advantage.

What did I want as a saddle?

I wanted to be the best, the most coveted. I achieved that and then traveled to more prestigious saddle houses. I got myself all the way from my tiny town to Sixth Kingdom's capital, where my beauty and skill in sexual pleasures landed me a contract as a royal saddle.

The top of the top.

What did I want then?

To be the most desired. The highest paid. Looked up to or envied by all the other saddles. Aside from Auren, I achieved that too.

I thought I had what I wanted because I was in control. I used my beauty and my body to better my situation. Until one day, I looked in the mirror and realized I didn't want any of that anymore. Didn't want to have to please anyone else but myself.

I wanted out, and because of Auren, I got out. Because of this big oaf, I was able to flee Midas's control.

What did I want after that?

To go as far away from the cold kingdoms as I could. To be alone, rich and glamorous, with no man around that I'd ever have to please for coin again. To live content on some remote palatial estate far from any saddle house.

"What do you want, Rissa?" Osrik asks again.

I shake my head. "I thought I knew, but…I want something different now," I admit quietly.

His eyes spark with interest.

My throat closes, jaw aching with emotion I keep trying to bite down on. "Don't make me say it."

I'm not a woman comfortable with emotions. I have no experience with having real, honest conversations with a man. If he makes me try to explain now, it will come out a jumbled mess, and I don't want this—us—to be a mess.

He looks at me like he's reading my thoughts through my eyes. "You don't have to say anything. I hear you anyway."

My jaw tightens around the wad of sentiment, nearly choking as I try to hold back tears to his perfect response.

"Osrik?" I whisper, and my voice sounds small. I've never let myself feel small around a man. It wasn't safe. But it is with him.

"Yeah?"

"I want you to do something for me that no one ever has before."

"What's that?"

Embarrassment tries to strangle the words, but I push through, my eyes meeting his. "I want you…to make love to me."