Chapter 50

The stew bubbles and steams, flames licking the underside of the stockpot. I toss another piece of wood on the fire, sparks erupting.

Sitting on a log, elbows set on my knees, my gaze shifts to her—watching the flames, toying with a piece of grass.

My heart thumps high in my throat.

With less weight dragging them down, those loose waves frame her face in this fiercely wild way that gives her a cutting, exotic air.

Makes her look like a warrior.

I didn’t tell her that I cut it shorter on one side because I thought it would frame the crystal roses growing like floral ghosts from that mark on her shoulder, mutated since I saw it last. Risen in places. Stretched farther across her chest and up the side of her neck. I certainly didn’t tell her I counted the blooms on the beach before I resecured her necklace—twelve. Most the size of a pip, ranging to a cherry, and two the size of a mandarin.

Breathtaking. And so fucking haunting.

I doubt she’s aware of her capabilities. That she has the power to wield her own light like the elders of her race—the ones who spilled from Mount Ether, and have since been hunted.

Slain.

Whether she’s aware of it or not, her light’s been seeping through the cracks in times of fear—similar to the raw emotion she must have felt when she hid herself from the Vruks all those years ago.

Those blooms tell me too much.

Too little.

They tell me the words she’s biting back. The ones that keep choking her breath. The four severed nubs and the bruises on the back of her arm tell me she’s got harmful tendencies she may or may not try to fall back upon.

Key word being try.

Too much.

Too little.

Her gaze flicks up, catching mine, a blush creeping over her cheeks that brings much needed color to her drawn complexion. She tucks the shorter side of her hair behind her ear and looks away, like she’s afraid I’ll see past her shields.

Little does she know, I’m already beneath them.

“What was that place I found earlier?” she asks, collecting her lopped hair and piling it behind the log she’s seated on.

I clear my throat, reaching forward to stir the stew, hoping it smells alright. The moment she walked out that door, every sprig of herbs I’d stuffed into the pot lost their punch. I hope she never learns how bland the world really is.

If she does, I’ve failed her again.

“The Great Purge turned a large chunk of the continent to glass, but I’m beginning to wonder if the blast released a pocket of gas that has since blown out and forged that cavern. There was a well of illuminated water at its base that looked and smelled the same as the water in the bowl at Mount Ether. I saw a Vruk clawing out of the pool, like it had just been birthed.”

Her eyes go wide like saucers. “So that cave is—”

“Constantly spawning Vruks, yes.”

A small pause slips by. “And there was nobody down there …” she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbles on it, “singing?”

“In the cavern?” I frown. “No. Why would there be?”

“Ignore me,” she blurts, eyes churning with guarded thoughts. I’m about to press her on it when she says, “We need to go back and destroy it.”

She’s sitting straighter, like she wants to leap up and dart there right now. I’d love to get further inside that head and see exactly what she’s thinking we could even do. Stuff the thing with logs? The Vruks would slash through them in a heartbeat.

“There’s no point,” I rumble, more concerned about the fact that there might be more openings elsewhere—perhaps where there aren’t any moisture-suckling shadows to stem the flow. “It appears nothing is making it past the nest of Irilak.”

“Not true. I saw a Vruk outside the walls of Parith.”

I raise a brow. “Did you now?”

She nods. “It chased me. What if it came from there?”

Tilting my head to the side, I ask, “Did it look malnourished?”

“It was definitely hungry,” she says, and a shadow slips over her eyes as she shivers, then shakes her head. “But no, not malnourished. It looked … mighty. A beast in its prime. I didn’t know they could get that big.”

She doesn’t know a lot of things.

“Well, all the Vruks in the cavern are being born into a world where dog eats dog. Those desperate enough to escape the pit of impending doom make the leap out into the gloom where they’re swiftly disposed of. I doubt it came from there. If anything, that cavern is keeping a large pack of Irilak busy that would otherwise be preying on less favorable things. Like people.”

She flinches, cutting me a harsh look, boasting those protective instincts that coax a certain part of me into a rumbling, ravenous stir. “They’re not all like that …”

Yes, they are.

I don’t push it. Let her think the best of her little shadow friend. He won’t hurt her, and everybody at the castle knows he won’t move past my scent line. He won’t hurt Baze because of the ring he wears—not that he’s ever believed it or been willing to test the theory.

Orlaith feeds the thing, and I’ve never had the heart to tell her, but I top it up so it’s not interested in preying on nearby village folk. An Irilak can’t survive on a single mouse every few days, though I find it endearing that she believes otherwise.

I stir the stew again, lifting some of the meat to see it’s beginning to pull apart.

“What happened to your chest?”

I raise a brow.

Her cheeks redden. “The marks where your tattoos used to be. N-not the …”

She trails off as I look down at the wounds scribed across my skin, like somebody picked at the runes until the edges peeled up, allowing them to rip free like hangnails. Felt a bit like that when they came up, too, but on a much larger, more painful scale.

“Broke something,” I say, turning my attention back to the stew.

Now I just have to find a way to break the rest of them.

“It looks painful.”

I shrug.

Pain is watching her seed blink out, feeling it try to uproot from my soul in agonizing drags. Pain is feeling like every second is one second closer to losing her.

Painis feeling like she couldn’t give a fuck about being lost.

The marks are bug bites in comparison.

“It looks like it’ll scar.”

I lift my head, catching her gaze, flames bouncing off the lilac depths. “Perhaps I’m sick of hiding the scars?”

She doesn’t last more than a second before she flicks her attention back to the fire. She could stab me through the heart again and it wouldn’t hurt as much.

I stir the pot, feeling her warm, prickly perusal brush upon my chest in small, nipping increments, like she’s stealing peeks. “Can I … make a salve for it?”

I look up.

There’s something in her eyes—the slightest speckle of light that almost fucking breaks me. Like a star bursting to life.

It’s not going to scar. Unlike the mark she made, the wounds will heal. Eventually. But I’ll let her paint me in mashed-up herbs if it gets me another one of those glimmers.

Her cheeks are flushed again as she hurries on. “There are some herbs in the cabin. I think I saw some Prunella Vulgaris hanging by the door. It’s really good for a lot of things. I know you’re not really interested in this stuff, but I just thought … well …”

It’s not that I’m not interested. Rai had similar interests—it’s just easier not to look.

“Sure, Milaje. Knock yourself out.”

Her eyes almost bug out of her head, and she bounds to her feet so fast you’d think her ass was on fire. “Prepare to have your mind blown. I’m going to make the best damn salve you’ve ever used.”

Not difficult to achieve since I’ve never used one before.

I let the faintest smile free as she bolts toward the door, my shirt dangling around her thighs and draped off her slight shoulder. She disappears from sight, her scent blown away with a pushy breeze, and I’m instantly struck with the stew’s busty aroma—hearty and packed full of botanical smells that make my mouth water.

I’ve heard her stomach rumbling. Mine’s making the same sounds. Can’t remember the last time I ate.

After some time, she comes dashing through the door with a wooden bowl tucked against her chest. “You’re going to have to stop stirring the stew,” she announces, settling on her knees before me.

I frown at the slurry of brown muck she drags her fingers through, lifting them expectantly as she looks at me from beneath thick lashes.

Clearing my throat, I pull the spoon out and set the lid on top of the pot, lean back, and make room for her between my thighs. She begins painting my wounds like she’s sweeping a paintbrush over my skin, nibbling her bottom lip in concentration.

I look away; focus on the fire. Picture myself in an ice bath, and pretend I’m not ready to combust at the vision of her.

The smell of her.

The feel of her touching me.

She has no idea of the power she wields. I’d crumble worlds just to see her smile.

“Shouldn’t we be moving toward the Norse? Hitch a ride on a barge?” she asks, dragging her fingers through the goo again and painting up by my clavicle.

“Too much traffic. If we keep heading in this direction, we will eventually emerge near Quoth Point.”

“Eventually,” she echoes, pausing to look up at me from beneath her brows.

I shrug. “If it were the easy route, everybody would take it.”

And we absolutely wouldn’t.

She makes a soft humming sound and continues painting my wounds in slow, tender strokes, easing back to inspect her handiwork before wiping her fingers on the grass. “All done.”

My chin drops to my chest. “Looks good.”

She beams so bright it almost makes me reconsider my next action.

Almost.

I reach forward, pinching the knot on the bandage bound around her throat just as she’s about to rock to her feet. She snaps her hand up and bands it around my wrist, wide eyes lit with a burst of wildfire.

“What are you doing?”

“Salving your wounds.”

“I didn’t agree to salved wounds,” she spits, yanking my wrist, grinding her teeth together in such a way I picture her canines breaking through.

My own punch down so fast the color leaches from her cheeks.

“And I don’t want you dying of infection,” I say, nice and slow. Steady. Betraying none of the wildness slashing at the underside of my skin. “Drop your hand. Now.”

Her upper lip peels back as she rises higher on her knees, pushes her face close to mine, and snarls—making my heart rattle.

My pulse pumps hot and heavy, every cell in my body igniting as I thread my hand through her hair and gently tug, tipping her head. “Remember what I told you about that fire, Milaje.” My gaze flicks to her lips. “This mouth is making promises that I doubt you have the intention of backing up.”

She frowns, like she has no idea what I’m talking about.

Probably a good thing.

“Hand. Now.”

She huffs out a sigh and loosens her grip. I pull my hand from her hair as she twists around so she’s staring at the flames, then lumps on her ass on the ground between my wide-open thighs. Radiating enough anger to set fire to the jungle, she tips her head, offering me access to the filthy bandage.

I grunt, brush her hair to the side, and begin untangling the bind, spicing the air with the smell of her blood. Though it’s been over a day since I tasted her, there’s not one part of me that hungers to sip at her with the smell of her pain so thick in the air. With visions of those severed nubs on her shoulder haunting me.

I’d rather a bottled smile.

Another unraveling twist of the bind, and I set bars of adamant around my insides. Not that it stops him from trying to thrash free the moment I reveal the extent of damage on the side of her throat.

My blood chills. The fire sputters, Orlaith’s next breath blown out like a waft of smoke.

She’s been torn at more than once—both deep enough to scar for life. One a flap of flesh hanging so loose I’m not sure how she’s been managing without pain relief.

Any deeper and her throat would have been torn right out.

That thing inside me slashes, my veins igniting with electric shocks of power that pop against the binds still bound around my body. Like a storm cloud trapped beneath my skin, roiling.

Swelling.

“These were made by different mouths,” I murmur, my voice laced with cold, bloody promises.

“The deeper one was a … man called Calah,” she rasps, and my heart skips a beat. “He’s—”

“Dead. I took him down years ago.”

She shakes her head, and there’s a tremor to her voice as she hurries on, “Now he is. Baze killed him in his burrow I discovered beneath an island in the bay. We rescued his prisoners. It’s how I ended up on that pier. The rest got on the ship in time.”

My eyes glaze.

Another failing of mine, and this one almost tore out her throat.

A heaviness rolls in across the sky, drops of rain splattering down from above, pinging off the bowls I’d brought out from inside.

Time liquidates.

Warmth settles on either side of my face. “Rhordyn …”

Her voice tugs at me, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s no longer sitting between my thighs but standing before me, drenched in rain now sheeting down, hands on my cheeks.

Shivering.

The fire is out. No light is left to illuminate her besides the sporadic bolts scribbling across the sky. But I don’t need light to see her.

She glows within me like a fucking star.

“Where did you go?” she asks, and I swallow.

“I’m right here, Milaje.” I reach around her, unhook the stockpot, then take her by the hand and lead her toward the cabin.

Always.