Page 45

Safehouse

Callum

The safehouse was a small farmhouse on a hefty plot of land about an hour’s ride away.

The driver gave him the key, then hightailed it in the opposite direction as soon as they exited the carriage, putting as much distance between himself and the fugitives as possible.

Understanding speared through Callum—he was a traitor now.

A real one.

Jameson had been right.

There was no coming back from this. Cal slung his bag over his shoulders and bent to pick up Rumi, who was swaying on her feet but held out a hand. He recalled the way she’d recovered so quickly from the piercer wound. She had clearly already healed some on the journey, and he was glad for that.

“I can walk,”

she said, though her voice sounded tired and blood still smeared her hands.

Wordlessly, he held out his arm and ushered her into the house.

Pain creased her features and she was far too pale for comfort, but he respected her desire for independence, and he trusted her to know her limits.

His own bullet wound ached something fierce, but pushing through pain was a specialty of his.

Still, he wouldn’t mind a break from it.

The farmhouse smelled like fresh bread when they entered, and the warm-toned walls welcomed them in.

How Weston could afford all this was a mystery to Cal, but he chose not to question it.

One problem at a time.

“Will you give me a tour?”

she asked as he dropped his bag by the door.

He could tell from the way she carried herself she was trying her best to appear unbothered, but the tremble in her hand and the way she leaned on his arm betrayed her.

Immediately, he moved to object, prepared to point out that she was one breeze away from keeling over and her blood would stain Weston’s lovely rugs.

But then her dark eyes met his.

He recalled when he had first gotten her away from Sullivan and had described the dingy cave they huddled in with a sarcastic flair.

Her wan smile told him she was thinking of the same.

“Of course.”

With a smile, he led her around the small house.

It felt like ages had passed since he’d first carried her off into the desert.

A soldier and his prisoner.

Now they were fugitives on the run together.

He would have laughed if the bitterness were not so near the surface.

Lace doilies covered the surfaces of counters and tables, boasting bowls full of fruit or little hand-crafted knick-knacks made from clay and glass.

“To your left, resting on a hand-carved table imported from the Northern Isles, you’ll see the fine craftsmanship of Yetoben on display, featuring our local desert foxes.”

He motioned to the figurines and Rumi grinned as she leaned close, studying the glass.

“Their ears are so large.

I did not see any in our travels.”

“You may yet.”

He led her further in.

The living room was cozy and warm with a stone fireplace,two wingback chairs, and a settee surrounding a coffee table.

Flimsy curtains covered the windows, and paintings of orange and red dunes hung on the walls.

“Here we find the finest curtains Chirston has to offer.

The holes are a feature, artwork created by the local moths just for your stay in this fine establishment.”

He smiled at her.

Already her color was a little better.

He’d need to get her stitched up, but for now she seemed to be enjoying his little jokes, grinning back at him as if she hadn’t just had a near-death experience.

What was in the water in Arryvia?

A wooden cabinet beside the dishware held an ornately painted tea set behind glass doors.

He opened the little doors and pulled out a teacup.

“My ma has a set like this,”

he mused, the “tour”

temporarily forgotten.

He squinted, turning the cup over in his hands, his thumb running over the blue and gold flowers painted on the outside.

She reached up to touch, saw the blood on her hands, and withdrew.

“My ama had a tea set, also.

Hers was green.

When she passed, aba hid it away.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d spoken of her mother, but it was the first she’d let him hear the wistfulness in her voice.

He still could hardly believe that her aba was the Aba, leader of the Arryvians.

That was something they hadn’t discussed.

He’d meant to, but the time never really seemed right.

He put the teacup back and gestured to the hall.

There was a tour to finish.

“After you, my lady.”

A bedroom opened from the hallway, the bed against a wall under a window, a blue knitted blanket draped over the bedspread.

A small dresser leaned on the opposite wall, a wash basin on top and a candle beside it.

Cal kept glancing at Rumi to gauge how she was faring, but she held her chin high and rarely met his eyes as they explored the place.

“Ah, yes, a fine room indeed.

If you listen carefully, you can still hear the stories whispered in the dark of the night.”

“What stories?”

she asked, looking at him.

“Of windwolves and nightwalkers, of course.”

“Ah, yes, the beast that nearly got me.

How could I forget?”

Callum couldn’t help but laugh.

She joined in, but just as quickly broke off her laugh with a grimace.

He needed to bring this to a close.

The bedroom across from the first boasted a large four-poster bed with a lovely dark quilt and wide fluffy pillows.

“This here is the finest room, the grand suite.”

Two bedside tables and a glass lamp on each finished the furnishings.

His gaze lingered too long on the larger bed.

The surge of wanting kindled in the base of his belly once more, thinking of how they had meant to share a bed before Sullivan intervened.

Callum looked to Rumi to find her cheeks bright red.

He wondered, briefly, what she was thinking at this moment, then dismissed it just as quickly.

She was a lady, and a wounded one at that. She most certainly wasn’t thinking of fucking like animals. He cleared his mind, then his throat.

“We should get you washed up.”

He could feel his eye swelling from where Sullivan had landed a solid hit.

“I’m told this place has water and pipes straight from wells deep beneath the house.”

“I do not understand what this means,”

she said, tilting her face to look up at him.

“It means a nice bath, and you smell like alcohol,”

he answered with what he hoped was a teasing smile, opening the bathroom door to reveal a porcelain basin mounted on gilded claw feet.

It stood on a raised pedestal in the center of the washroom as if worthy of worship and—at this point—it was.

Large enough for him to relax in, she’d nearly be able to swim in it.

He stepped into the room and inspected the tub, as if he were concerned something might jump out, fiddling with a knob until a slight groan sounded from somewhere beneath them.

The faucet sputtered, and water began to fill the basin.

He held in a smile as she gaped at the stream of water falling from the tap. Steam curled up from the outpour, the water hot from the desert, and filled the bathroom with humidity that fogged the large mirror.

“Alcohol?”

she questioned, following him into the room.

A piece must have clicked into place in her head, because as he turned back, her entire demeanor changed and relaxed.

“The rust beer.”

“Yeah, it ain’t great, but it makes you feel pretty good.

Figured you could use a drink after spending so much time with me.”

“We do not have drinks like that at home.

Some wine and mead, but nothing so…debilitating.”

Shame the color of shadows flooded his blood.

He couldn’t speak past the strangling lump in his throat.

He’d wondered what had happened.

How Sullivan had caught her.

Yet another deed to lay in the pile of blame and failures at his feet.

He’d fucked up so badly. How could she ever forgive him?

He looked at her through the haze, lingering on the soft curves clinging to her skin, darkened with her blood.

Rage laced through him and his fingers flexed.

He should have killed Sullivan.

He should have ignored her and slashed that fucker’s throat and let his blood water the ground at her feet.

That murderous feeling slid through his veins like an insidious venom and he clenched his jaw, if only to keep from marching back out the door to finish the job.

But he wouldn’t leave her.

Not like this.

A deep breath in through his nose, and he tried to release the vengeance and self-vilification through his mouth on an exhale.

There was no way he could have known.

No way to know that she didn’t have a tolerance for alcohol, or that Sullivan would be able to find out where she was.

The thoughts sounded like excuses in his head.

Her lips lifted into a small smile that may have also been a grimace.

“Your wounds, are they hindering—ah, may I help you into the tub, Miss Rumi?”

He asked, his voice low.

Her breath hitched.

He saw it catch there in her throat, right about the same place it snagged in his own.

She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and he had the most all-consuming urge to gather her up and capture that lip in his mouth and taste the salt on her skin.

Blood and bone—what was wrong with him? There she was, wounded and bleeding and all he could think of was feeling her skin on his.

Get it together, Cal.

He cleared his throat, gesturing to the raised portion of the floor by the tub.

“I know I ain’t a doctor, but may I look at your wound? I might need to stitch it up.”

Her chin bobbed and she took two steps forward, her fingers twitching at the bottom of her shirt.

“Do not look?”

“You must think me quite lascivious.”

“I do not know that word, but by the smirk on your face when you said it, yes.

Yes, I do.”

She raised her eyebrow, barely hiding her own grin.

That she was smiling at all right now only spoke to the strength of her spirit.

Cal made yet another vow to protect her, whatever the cost.

He dutifully turned around and picked at his shirt where her blood had stained it.

He heard her hiss through her teeth twice, then there was a solid plop as her clothing fell to the floor, followed by another rustle.

“Okay,”

she said.

Was it his imagination or did her voice seem huskier?

He turned back slowly with his hands up by his ears, keeping his eyes from dipping to where she covered herself with the dirty shirt.

And it…only barely kept her modesty.

She clutched it to her chest, the line of her tattoo pointing down like an arrow to the hidden bounty.

The bloody fabric reached her mid-thigh, barely.

She turned slightly, pinning the shirt to her belly with one hand, to reveal the two slashes in her side.

They still wept crimson, but already her body was trying to mend the damage.

He stepped closer and bent to inspect them, ignoring the siren call of her soft skin and the gentle slope of her back.

Fuck.

“I’m gonna go get my med kit.”

Without another word, he hustled from the bathroom.

On the way to where his bags rested by the door, he took several long breaths to cool his mind.

He snatched the moonshine from the pantry shelf as he passed.

When he returned, he brought a chair with him.

He turned off the water, set the chair before her, and sat.

She remained standing in the middle of the room, the meager shirt still held tightly to her body.

“May I touch you?”

He waited on bated breath for her answer.

“Yes.”

Ever so gently, he placed a hand on her slender back, his thumb pressing the skin of the first cut.

“This will sting,” he said.

“Just like the first time you attempted your mending.”

There was a smile, a familiarity in her tone that made his insides flutter like a damn schoolboy.

He chuckled, remembering when he’d offered to stitch up the bullet wound on her leg.

“For how often you dole out stab wounds, it’s probably about time you experienced one yourself,”

he said with a grin, dripping some alcohol onto a cloth.

Her whole body stiffened and her fingers clawed at his arm when he pressed the cloth to her skin to clean the wound.

But she didn’t so much as whimper.

He sewed up the wounds as efficiently as possible.

It was fascinating to witness the slow mending of her skin as he stitched, her body knitting itself together.

He wasn’t sure there was even a point to his ministrations.

He paused.

“Amazing,”

he murmured, his nose nearly brushing her ribs.

“Hmm?”

“Just your body—I mean magic.

It’s fascinating.”

“Oh, um, thank you.”

“You should have died from this.

Most ordinary men would have.”

“Another gift of my blood, I suppose.

The Elders speak of the gods’ blessings upon their chosen people.”

Her side shifted when she huffed.

“I am not certain I believe Arryvians are chosen, but I have seen the many benefits granted by the Divine.

Keener senses, speedy recovery, as you’ve seen, and other gifts for the worthy.”

Cal cleared his throat and stood, raking his hand through his hair.

He offered her his hand and assisted her into the slick basin, trying—and failing miserably—not to watch her ass as she lowered down, her back to him, pulling her knees into her chest as the water sloshed.

It was then his eyes landed upon the silvery slashes that crisscrossed over her back like some kind of macabre chess board.

Feral rage gathered in his chest and flowed through his veins again as he stared at the pale lines that mapped her trauma.

He knew who those came from—she hadn’t had those marks before.

Cal would kill him.

He would hunt that motherfucker down and replicate each and every wound Sullivan had given her, and then when he was mewling and begging for death, only then would Cal slice his gut and let his entrails fall to the floor so Sullivan could watch his body die.

His fingers twitched, longing to trace each line, to press a kiss along every single slash and scar until nothing remained except the warmth he felt for her.

Then they were gone, hidden by the porcelain as she laid back into the water.

The moan that came from her perfect mouth as she settled into the warm water nearly undid him.

Goosebumps danced over his arms and his heart flipped in his chest.

What did he have to do for her to make that sound again?

His fingers reached without his bidding, tracing a pair of scars that curved over her shoulder.

“No one will ever hurt you again,”

he said, meaning every word.

She only tipped her head to look up at him with eyes that appeared much older than they should have.

“Do not make promises you cannot keep,”

she whispered.

Her wet fingertips slid across the back of his hand and she turned her head to kiss it tenderly, her lips brushing across his scarred knuckles.

Why did those words sting?

He bent and kissed the top of her head, feeling like he needed to do more somehow.

But what else was there to do or say? He excused himself, lingering in the doorway for a moment, watching as she dripped the warm water over her arms, the bruises from that bastard already fading, before he left her to bathe privately.