Chapter 21
Ihate the Rut.
My temples pound like someone is beating on war drums inside my head, pieces of my knotted hair glued to my cheeks with sweat from riding home in the afternoon sun. I'm never drinking again.
The five of us have been mostly quiet—Eldridge too hungover, and Zorina and Theon too tired to be much for conversation. And I'm too pissed at Sin to even look in his direction. He hasn't uttered a single word to me all day as we make our trek back to the cabin.
As he shouldn't.
He knows I'll cut his godsdamned tongue out if he tries.
* * *
The Black Art and I are leaving at first light. Our saddle bags are packed, and I set out my clothes for tomorrow on the foot of my bed so I don't wake the others by rummaging around in my trunk. I've already said my goodbyes to my family. All except one.
I find Eldridge alone by the dying fire, watching as the final embers suffocate in the pit. He doesn't startle when I place my hand on his back. It's impossible to sneak up on any of my family with their advanced hearing.
I wrap both my arms around him from behind, my hands barely able to reach far enough to interlock my fingers against his stomach. Pressing my forehead to his back, I inhale his signature scent—worn-in leather and spice. He's tense under my touch, but after a moment, he blows out an exaggerated sigh and reaches up to hold my forearm against him. We stay like this for a long while, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking.
We don't need to.
We never have.
* * *
"If we keep riding, we'll make it before the brunt of the storm," Sin says, eyes on the clouds now darkened and fattened with rain.
We're still a few hours out from Scarwood, and that's counting on us not stopping to relieve ourselves or our horses. And given we've only stopped one time several hours ago, and for a few minutes at that, we need to break.
"The horses are winded—we can stop at the next river."
"No time," he grumbles under his breath.
I run my hand along my mare's neck and give her a few gentle pats. She whinnies in response, but the sound is strained. "If we don't break them for water and rest, they'll collapse, and then none of us are making it back before the storm. We're stopping."
"They're bred for endurance—they'll be fine," he snips back as if empathy for the steeds is nothing but a nuisance.
"Your compassion for the comfort and lives of others is inspiring, Your Grace. Truly."
As if on cue, rushing water burbles in our ears from the woods at our right. I tug on the reins and steer the mare towards the running water, and she changes direction eagerly.
"Get back on the road, witch."
I ignore him, and he curses under his breath behind me.
"If you are foolish enough to stop with that storm brewing on the horizon, I will not have an ounce of regret leaving you here to wilt in the woods."
"Likewise, Your Grace. Don't expect me to stop when I pass your sorry ass on the road next to your collapsed horse," I call over my shoulder.
A stream of obscenities chase after me, but I ignore them all, my mare and I ducking into the tree line.
She eagerly laps at the water as I rummage through the saddle bag and pull out some apples I stowed away for her. I scoop my canteen into the river, down the entire contents, then fill it again and tuck it away for later. Dropping to my knees, I lean forward and splash water onto my face and rub vigorous circles on my cheeks, ridding my skin of the collected dirt and sweat.
My lungs turn to ice.
I want to believe it's from the frigid water I dumped into my belly too quickly, but the hairs standing on the back of my neck warns me otherwise. I jump to my feet, swiping the dagger from my thigh and spinning around, ready to drive it into the gut of whoever pussyfoots behind me.
A hand vices around my wrist, halting the blade mid-swing.
"For someone who faults me for lacking compassion, you certainly have an affinity for violence, little witch." Sin releases my hand, apparently confident I'm not going to thrust it through his chest.
Foolish man.
I push past him, feed my horse the plump red apples, and pull out a few more for Sin's steed while he refills his canteen in the river.
"I was quite content to wilt alone, Blackheart." I scratch Sin's dark brown horse under his chin, and he nods his large head in approval.
"The only reason I came back was because you have demonstrated a pattern of luring in Legion soldiers, and I'm not in the mood to grind Legion skulls into dust today."
"Or feed me their innards?" I ask, throwing his words from the Rut back at him. I'm still furious with him for throwing himself between me and Marcus like I was a doll being played with too roughly. But I would be lying to myself if it didn't stoke a different feeling in me too—one more complicated and far more dangerous than fury—watching the Black Art threaten someone in my honor.
But I wouldn't dream of letting him know that.
"Keep defying orders, and it will be your innards I leave for the vultures."
I move to the side of his horse, offering a few pats and adjusting his saddle bag. "Charming as ever, Your Grace. Pray tell—do you engage all your prisoners in such meaningful conversation?"
He splashes water on his face and runs his wet hands through his long hair, the backs of his shoulders pulled tight under his fitted black shirt. Does he have all his clothes tailored a size too small to show off his muscular physique? Knowing the Black Art's taste for arrogance, it would not surprise me.
"I think we'd both be more content if you refrained from opening your mouth at all, little—"
Thunder claps above us like two boulders hurtling into one another. But even that's not loud enough to mask the breath that whooshes from my lips as Sin's horse plants a hoof into my rib cage. I'm on the ground a second later, my hand pressed to my left side, my ears barely recognizing the sound of both horses fleeing as the thunder quakes the ground and lightning strikes close by.
He"s on me immediately, prying my hand away to assess the damage. At least that's what I think he's doing. Maybe he's using my vulnerability to shove his sword through my chest instead.
"Shh, Wren, it's okay. I have you, I have you."
For a second, I wonder why he's shushing me, and then I realize those strangled whimpers I'm hearing are falling from my lips. Sliding a hand under my knees and another under my shoulders, Sin lifts me off the ground in one gentle sweep. I don't protest. I couldn't if I wanted to.
The pain is blinding.
I turn my head inward so my forehead rests against the smooth planes of his chest. Oddly enough, the gentle rocking as he carries me through the woods is soothing. Or rather, it would be if the rain wasn't now pelting us with enough force to leave bruises.
"The horses. I'm sorry—I didn't mean for…"
"Don't talk, you'll only aggravate the break. The horses are trained to find their way back to the castle. It's only you we need to worry about right now."
I nod against his chest, unsure if he can see it but he'll feel my hair scratching against him with the vertical movement. Time eludes me. I'm not sure if it's been minutes or hours since Sin scooped me up as if I weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and traipsed through the tangled woods. Fire pokers prod at my side and I force myself to exhale in sharp pants through my lips, the pain too great to take anything more than shallow breaths. Tears sting my eyes and I bury my face farther into his chest, notes of cedar and peppercorn washing over me.
My eyes jolt open as Sin kneels and lowers me to a soft patch of grass.
He presses something cold and smooth to my lips. "Open up, love."
I don't know why—maybe I hit my head when I fell—but I part my lips without objection and let him pour a vile liquid down my throat. When the contents are empty, he pulls out a second bottle from his pocket and dumps it down his own gullet.
The potions. He's reverting our appearances.
He slides his hands under me, lifts me against his chest again, and continues on his way.
"I can walk," I mutter lazily, the bitter taste of the tonic clearing the fog in my head.
"We're almost there," he answers but doesn't slow to set me on my feet.
"Where are we going?"
"There's a military outpost not far from where the horses left us stranded. We'll commandeer a tent for the night and take one of their horses back in the morning."
Explains why he reverted our appearances. I doubt kingdom soldiers would give up a tent for anyone other than the Black Art himself.
"Does this mean I'm not a cute brunette anymore?" I ask with eyes closed, still focusing on taking steadying breaths to keep myself from hollering my way through the pain.
In no doubt an effort to distract me from the crushed bone that was once my rib, he lowers his lips to my ear and says, "I prefer blondes anyway."
* * *
The Black Art calls for wrapping tape and whiskey before ducking inside the military tent and laying me on the bed.
His hands are on the hem of my tunic immediately, grabbing the fabric and sliding it up my—
"Stop," I choke through the pain.
His hands halt immediately. "Wren, I need to look at it."
A man dressed in kingdom armor appears in the tent's entrance; tape, a bottle of amber liquid, and some balled up clothes in his hands. He sets them on the bedside table and waits for Sin to dismiss him, which he promptly does, his green eyes never leaving mine.
I push myself into a sitting position, dangling my legs over the side of the bed, and wince as I gingerly press my hand to my side.
"Your clothes are soaked—you need to get out of them anyway."
"And you think I'm just going to let you be the one to take them off?" I scoff.
He growls under his breath. "You must have hit your head harder than I thought if you think I'd ever have interest in that with you."
"Hmm. As far as I see it, only one of us is trying to strip the clothes off the other."
Exhaling sharply, he throws his hand through his hair and turns his back to me. I stand and face away from him, grabbing my shirt and—
"Fuck," I wince, unable to bite back the pain that lashes through me as I try to lift my tunic.
He's at my rear a second later, hands balling the fabric at the base of my tunic, his knuckles grazing my bare skin. He doesn't lift it, waiting a beat to see if I will refuse his help again. Shoving down my pride, I dip my chin in the slightest of nods, and Sin carefully slides my top the rest of the way up and over my head.
I suck in a breath as his fingers brush the ties of my bodice.
"I need it off," he says hurriedly, but his hands pause, waiting for my consent.
I nod again.
Sin undoes the ties of my bodice with impressive speed, and a wave of heat rushes to my face as I wonder how he became so practiced in the art of getting women out of their undergarments. The thin piece of clothing falls open, revealing my back to him.
Chilled air nips at my spine, and he yanks a blanket off the bed and drapes it over my shoulders before slowly lifting my left arm by the elbow. He presses the tips of his fingers where it looks like an ink pot spilled onto my side, and when they suddenly vanish from my skin, I shiver as the cold quickly rushes to settle where the warmth of his hands had been.
A loud ripping sound startles me from behind, and I look over my shoulder just as Sin tears off a length of the tape with his teeth. "I'll have Anika tend to you the minute we return. The rib is cracked. Wrapping it will help for now."
While mages possess the ability to heal wounds and injury—mending broken bones is best left to those trained in the art of healing and bone setting. This is a job for Anika—the castle's designated healer.
Sin presses the tape to my bruised side and carefully wraps it under my other arm and across the top of my waist. The backs of his knuckles graze the undersides of my breasts as he pulls the tape across my front with each wrap. I refuse to be embarrassed. I felt enough of that when his horse knocked me on my ass in front of him.
Desperate to distract myself from the situation at hand, I say, "This wouldn't have happened had you left me out there like you so boldly declared you were going to." After all, it was his horse that decided to paint a hoof-shaped bruise on my side.
"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't insisted we dismount," he snaps. He tugs the tape a little harder but lets up when I wince at the pain.
"It was critical for the horses we did. I would trade a broken rib for a living horse any day, Your Grace."
He secures the remaining length of tape, and lowers my arms to my sides. I startle when he presses callused fingers to my back and traces the familiar jagged pattern that runs from my right shoulder blade to the left side of my lower back. It doesn't hurt—the wound is long scarred over—but something about the Black Art seeing the failure I wear on my back hardens my bones to diamond.
"What happened?" His voice is low, and I can't tell if that's genuine concern or mere curiosity in his tone.
"Cathal." I don't elaborate—I don't need to. I'm sure the Black Art is more than familiar with what the aftermath of a lashing looks like.
Sin is quiet for an extended beat, then drops his hand from my marred flesh. I'm certain the Black Art has earned more than his fair share of scars over the years, but kingdom healers can erase those kinds of marks with ease. With a family comprised of four adult transcendents and a fellow mage sister, we could have healed the scars on my back also, but I never wanted to. As soon as Cathal's whip bit into my skin, it birthed a memory that no amount of healing magic could erase. Removing the scarring only seemed like trying to cover up an experience I would never be able to unlive.
Sin clears his throat. "He is too valuable to kill right now, but he won't be forever. And when that time comes, Wren, it'll be in your name I rip out his callous heart."
His words stun me into silence for a moment, and I almost wonder if my ears betrayed me. Singard Kilbreth—reaper of souls and darkness incarnate—vowed to slaughter a bloodwitch's enemy in her honor.
And I fucking hate my body for reacting the way it does to the sound of my name in his low, graveled voice.
I definitely hit my head.
"I'll heat you a bath. Your skin is freezing."
He calls for the large tub to be filled, and the soldier who escorted us to the tent begins bringing in buckets of water and pouring them in the basin. The tent definitely belongs to an officer as it is decently spacious and has an off-ground bed, private bath, and a couple small tables.
Sin returns to the bedside table and pulls his soaked shirt over his head, revealing a deep bronzed back, sculpted with muscle.
Nothing that lethal should be so beautiful.
The tips of his long hair brush the center of his spine, and he picks up the clean shirt provided, the layers of muscle flexing in his arms and shoulders as he pulls it over his head. He picks up the dry pair of trousers, and my breath catches in my throat.
As if thinking better of it, he slings them over his arm and walks to the bath, now filled with water. He places his hand to the side of the tub, and a moment later, steam rises in beckoning tendrils.
"I'll give you some privacy."
He takes a swig from the whiskey bottle, then ducks out of the tent, and I don't waste time disrobing out of the rest of my sodden clothing and slipping into the bath. The water instantly floods relief to my chilled bones, and Sin's wrap job actually has reduced the pain in my side significantly.
He returns before I'm finished, now wearing the dry trousers, and merely shoots me a passing glance before he walks past, pulls off his shirt, and flops into the bed.
The one bed.
"Am I really meant to sleep on the floor?" I ask in disbelief. Just an hour ago, he promised to rip Cathal to pieces in my name, and now he expects me to sleep on the floor while he lies in comfort?
"There's plenty of room—I promise I don't bite. Well, actually…"
I hear the smile in his voice, and my hand instinctively caresses my collarbone where he had bitten me the night of the Rut.
"You honestly expect me to lie next to you?"
"You seemed to have no qualms sleeping with Eldridge at your side."
I scoff audibly at his suggestion.
"Though, I wonder if you would allow him into your bed as eagerly now that he has another woman's scent on his tongue," he muses.
"Do notspeak on which you know so little about, Your Grace," I snip, muddling his title with condescension. Tears burn at my eyelids, and I quickly blink them away.
He doesn't respond, and when the last of the anger bleeds from my bones, I step out of the bath and dress in the dry clothes left out for me—a spare men's shirt and pants that swallow me in extra fabric. I eye Sin in the bed—the blankets tucked under his bare arms, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. He's asleep, or at least, he appears to be.
There really isn't another surface to sleep on; no spare chairs, or even a bedroll occupy the tent. And with my cracked rib, sleeping on the floor isn't a wise choice. Careful to not overextend my side, I lie on the bed, over the covers. There's not a chance in Hell I'm climbing under the blankets and risking waking up with our bodies tangled together in our sleep.
For a split second, his breathing pauses, and I'm certain he's aware I've slipped into bed next to him. I doubt anyone has ever managed to sneak up on the Black Art, even in sleep.
His breathing settles back into a rhythmic cadence, and just as I think I'll never be able to sleep next to my sworn enemy, all thought escapes me, and I fall into a slumber more peaceful than death.