Page 15 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER NINE

MAEVYTH

T he sound of grunts and heavy breathing lured my gaze toward where Zevander stood in the main room of the hovel on a makeshift ladder he’d erected from Uncle Riftyn’s coffin wood.

Heavy snowfall the night before had collapsed rotted tree branches woven throughout the thatch roof, letting in a cold breeze that failed to chill me, as warm as I felt right then.

Not while his unclothed torso gleamed with sweat, his muscles flexing with his toil.

Ruining my focus.

“Eyes on the task, Maevyth. Eyes on the task,” I muttered, chopping the spikeroot I’d gathered from the cupboard into bowls of stewed tomatoes we’d retrieved from the pantry. Couldn’t possibly wear a proper shirt to fix the roof, could you?

Surely, it was purposeful on his part, as if he was going out of his way to tempt me the last few days.

A groan of exertion drew me for another glance, and I found myself staring at his exquisitely carved physique that rippled under the strain of literally holding the roof up by himself.

The sheer strength and tension in his body stirred my pulse, as I imagined my fingers drifting over the deep ridges and steel planes.

I shouldn’t have been so enthralled watching him—a powerful and skilled assassin—performing menial tasks around the hovel, but gods, every glance stoked the burning inside of me.

Irritating , my head argued.

Three full and fruitless days had managed to slip past since I suggested we remain apart from each other. Three days of endless reading at Aleysia’s side. Three days of pacing and praying to a god in whom I’d stopped believing long ago.

Three days of skirting Zevander and the lingering glances we exchanged in passing. The occasional brush of his fingers. The frustrating reminders of what we both longed for.

I was losing my wits in the humdrum of waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

We’d trained the last two mornings, simple glyph summoning, which remained an ever-sketchy outcome where my bone whip was concerned.

In the evenings, we sat by the fire, talking about our day while sipping hot tea.

It seemed we’d only distanced ourselves sexually, but as our friendship continued to bloom, the more time I spent with him, the harder it was to ignore all the things that made him so magnetically attractive. Desirable.

Another glimpse and my gaze caught on one of his many scars, faint but visible.

Perhaps it’d passed my vision a dozen times before, but it was in that particular moment, I noticed its odd shape.

Not like a battle or fighting wound or even one inflicted by the strike of a whip—I’d seen plenty of those on his flesh.

This one was far too sinister, as if a sharp tool had been used on him.

It spoke of torture. The kind of agony that sent a prickling sensation across my own skin.

He’d suffered greatly at some point in his life.

Abuses I couldn’t bear to think about and instead, turned my mind to something else.

“I’ve been reading Elowen’s notes on healing… I might fetch some shadowroot and foxfell from the forest where I’ve seen her gathering it.”

“I’ll fetch it for you.”

Pangs of disappointment twisted in my stomach. The air felt as if it’d grown thinner, the longer I remained trapped in this place, and while I appreciated the sanctuary from whatever roamed outside the walls, it held a suffocating stagnancy.

“Perhaps I can go with—” I turned to see him leaning slightly toward me, his arms resting over his head against the rafters, stretching long cords of muscle and sinew that had my fingers tingling.

However brutal his body’s landscape might’ve been, he was beautiful.

Every scar, a mark of strength that I wanted to map with my fingertips.

To honor his resilience and survival with the softest kisses.

“That should hold,” he said, his gaze scanning over his work. When his eyes fell on me, I quickly looked away, turning my attention back to my chopping. “Is my lack of attire distracting you?”

The amusement in his voice sharpened my embarrassment to frustration, and I chopped harder. Faster. “Not at all.”

He chuckled, frustrating me even more. “If you put half the effort into fighting off the infected as you’re inflicting on that poor spikeroot right now, they’d all be destroyed.”

“If you put half the effort into wearing clothes, you might not inspire such violent thoughts.” I glanced up only long enough to see him grinning at me. Again.

“Then, you admit. You are distracted.”

“I’m not—” As I brought the knife down for another chop, it struck my finger. “Ouch! Damn it!” Dropping the blade, I lifted my hand, examining the bead of blood forming where I’d cut it. A queasy sensation stirred in my stomach.

“Let me see.” Gentle hands lowered my wrist, and he tilted his head, examining the cut.

I hadn’t even heard the creak of him descending the ladder.

He shook his head with a sharp click of his tongue. “That’s a nasty one.” Swiping up a rag from beside us, he dabbed the blood away.

“It’ll heal. They always do. If you weren’t so insistent on tormenting me all the time, I might’ve avoided the injury.”

“Apologies.” With his eyes on mine, he pressed a kiss to the wound, and my mind drifted to thoughts of him slipping it into his mouth, the way he’d sucked my arousal off his own fingers the night we were last intimate.

How badly I wanted to return to that moment, to feel those lips across my throat and between my thighs. A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I shook it off, drawing back my hand.

“Where in your past did you learn to repair a roof? Or craft a ladder?” I tossed the rest of the root into the bowl, ignoring the unsteady thump of my heart and lingering burn across my finger. Denying him wasn’t entirely by choice, after all, but borne of a need to protect my heart. And him.

“I’ve always been good with my hands,” the hint of amusement in his voice withered when he asked, “What was it you were saying?”

“Hmm?”

“A moment ago. You said perhaps you can go …”

“Oh! Yes. Perhaps I can go with you? Just…a short walk.”

“You long for some fresh air.”

“Desperately. I feel…confined. Every minute I’m not at her side, I wonder if she’s moved. Or spoken. I was reading yesterday, and I couldn’t discern if it was her voice or my own narrating the words inside my head.”

“A walk might be just the relief you need. We can pick up the training that we missed this morning, as well.” He popped open the cork on a bottle of wine he’d found in the pantry and poured some into two cups.

Again, I found myself glancing at his rough, brawny form.

Clearing my throat, I lifted both bowls and crossed the room, setting them down onto the table.

“I’d like that. I could certainly stand to learn more self-control.

” I took my seat, and Zevander sank into the chair across from me, his body a wall of hardened flesh I couldn’t see past.

Stop staring.

Not even the vapid flavor of the food could distract my mind from him.

Or perhaps it did a little. Goodness, was it ever bland.

I lifted the tin cup of wine and smiled as I brought it to my lips.

With his attention on me, he tipped his head, brow flickering in a way that seemed to ask what had me amused.

“Grandfather would roll over in his grave from seeing me drinking wine out of a tin cup.” I tipped back a small sip of it, closing my eyes to the distant memories of Aleysia and I sneaking tastes in the cellar.

I let the warm, bitter flavor of morumberries dance across my tongue, lulling me back to those days that seemed so much simpler.

When I opened my eyes again, Zevander stared back at me over the top of his cup, his gaze as unyielding as a firm hand closing around my neck. And while he remained silent, a strange tension filled the space between us, warmth moving through my veins.

Clearing my throat, I broke eye contact and set the cup aside for the bowl. Spooning a bite of it, I wrinkled my nose at the awful taste, like dirt on my tongue. My throat bobbed hard as I swallowed past it.

The quiet that lingered between us only heightened the anxiety coursing through me.

“I’ll need to force feed Aleysia if she doesn’t wake soon.

Knowing her, though, she’d probably regurgitate it all over me and make me regret the effort.

” My chuckle died with the clang of a spoon hitting the floor, a startling sound, and I looked up to see Zevander’s hand curled to a fist.

At first, I didn’t think anything of it, until he bent forward for the fallen utensil, and I caught a tremble in his fingers when he lifted it. Wordlessly, he set the spoon beside the bowl, before resting his palms flat on either side of it.

“My apologies…if my comment was a bit unseemly.”

He exhaled a forced breath and settled back in his chair. “Your apology is unnecessary. I took no offense to it.”

Offense?

I spooned another mouthful, teasing out the meaning of his words. The remark was certainly coarse, but it shouldn’t have offended him. “You’re not hungry?”

Both hands returned to fists at either side of his bowl, and he cleared his throat. “I mean no offense to you when I say the food here is…rather bland.”

I smiled at that, stirring the root into the juices of the tomato. “Not even the king’s finest spices could liven the flavor.” When I looked up, the smile on my face faded on noticing the pallor of his skin, as if drained of all blood. “Are you all right?”

“Will you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

He pushed up from the table, his hands flexing at his sides as he strode toward the bedroom. Again, I sat pondering if his reaction was the result of what I’d said.