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33

Honesty

Anya

I was quickly learning that in the religion of our sex, there were many forms of worship. Last night had been heated, frantic, hungry; this morning was slow, needy, and indulgent, a push and pull that had me wound up and strung out.

When our bodies were once again sated—gray light streaming through the single window in our cabin—I wondered, idly, what other forms of reverence he’d yet to show me. I looked forward to finding out.

Idris was still panting slightly when he settled on his back. I curled toward him, pressing my bare body against his side, and resting my head on his collarbone.

He blew out a long breath. “That was… fuck ,” he said appreciatively.

I laughed. “It really was.”

A half-smile kicked up the corner of his mouth. “You don’t regret…?”

I shook my head. “Do you?”

“Absolutely not.”

I released a breath, more relieved than I anticipated. While we’d played a game of tease and hesitation last night, it’d come from a real place—an awareness of the circumstances that complicated this budding thing between us. In the light of day, the complications were still present, but I was glad he found this worth the risk.

I know I did.

My hand, which had been resting on his stomach, meandered up his strong torso, relishing every ridge. When my fingertips reached his scar, I traced its path from where it started on his chest to where it disappeared over his shoulder and back down again. The surface of it was smooth, but the skin was dense and gnarled underneath, like a tree root draped in silk. The wound must’ve been deep.

I wondered what’d left such a gruesome mark. I imagined the monster in the grove the night he rescued me, how frightening and terrible it had been. The one in Brine had been no less horrifying. How many had he slain over the years? Tens, hundreds? What sort of life did he truly live when he wasn’t escorting innkeepers to the capital?

The pad of my thumb found the widest part of the gouge, just to the left of his nipple.

Idris squirmed. “That tickles.” He stayed my hand, enveloping it with his and holding it against the center of his chest.

“If I asked you about your scar,” I said, “could you even tell me?”

His grip tightened, like he didn’t want to let go. “No, I couldn’t.” He turned his head and stared into my eyes, his expression earnest. “But I want you to know that I don’t delight in withholding things from you.”

“You must delight a little,” I teased.

He kissed my temple. “Only in jest.”

I threaded my fingers through his. I found it hard to reconcile that the man who’d worshipped me last night was magically bound to something I couldn’t know and didn’t understand. That the hands that’d brought me so much pleasure were the same hands that wielded a flaming sword and fought unspeakable evil.

It was… hot , in a frightening sort of way. A reckless sort of way.

“Can you truly say nothing of your Oath?” I asked.

He didn’t speak—didn’t even shake his head.

“What can you say, then?”

“I keep only the secrets I am bound to keep, secrets that are not mine to tell,” Idris said. “But ask me anything you like, Anya, and if I am able, I will answer.”

I eyed his scar again. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. Especially in the cold.”

“When did it happen?”

“Fourteen years ago. I was twenty-one.”

“Had you already taken the Oath?”

He quirked a brow, as if to point out my proximity to that which he couldn’t say.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said, trying not to shudder at the thought of a monster’s claw doing such damage; no wonder Idris hadn’t seemed alarmed when he came to the Possum with that puncture wound. “Have you ever been in love?”

He released a surprised puff of air, then his brow furrowed as he considered his answer. “I thought I was, once. In my youth.” He toyed with a tendril of my hair as he continued. “She was the daughter of the baker that Grinnick and I stole from on occasion. She caught us rummaging around in the garbage behind the bakery one night and gave us a fresh loaf.

“For the next month, she fed us the failed bakes—breads that hadn’t risen properly or had too many air pockets. We formed what felt to me like a friendship, something I hoped would become more. Then I overheard her father telling a customer about his beloved only daughter’s engagement.” Idris shook his head. “As a sixteen-year-old, it was devastating. But it was only puppy love.”

“She was kind to you,” I said.

“I mistook her kindness for true feeling,” he agreed, releasing another soft laugh. “A valuable lesson for a young boy, I reckon.”

“My first love was named Peregrine,” I mused. “He was an idiot. So was I. Maybe that’s the point of puppy love.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Idris asked.

I stared at our entwined hands on his chest. “A month ago, I might’ve said yes. But now I think true love requires more reciprocity than what I’ve experienced in the past.”

“Sounds like they didn’t deserve you,” Idris said, his tone surprisingly cool—protective.

“No, but I should’ve been clearer about what I wanted.”

His tone took on a gravelly quality. “And what do you want?”

“I thought I was the one asking the questions?” I teased, then—in the spirit of learning from my past mistakes—I decided to answer him, anyway. “I want commitment. I want to feel like I’m not the only one giving.”

Seconds passed.

I began to fear I’d been too forward. That he’d interpret my words as expectations rather than transparency.

But then Idris said, “So you want to be the one taking .” He squeezed me closer, kissing my neck. “That can be arranged.”

I laughed, grateful for the levity. It was too early for me to expect anything from him other than this .

“Alright, alright,” I said, “back to you. What’s your favorite color?”

He lifted a brow. “Really, that’s your next question?”

“Thought I’d reward your sad puppy story with an easy one.”

“Sad puppy.” He huffed. “Glad that’s what you took from that story.” He tipped his chin up, staring at the ceiling. “Let’s see, my favorite color...” After some thought, he met my eyes again. “It’s the shade between red and orange. Sunsets, fall foliage”—he tugged on the strand of hair he’d been playing with—“the color of your hair.”

I shoved his chest. “Empty flattery.”

“I already fucked you—why would I offer empty flattery now?”

His cheekiness surprised me, and I laughed heartily. “To fuck me again?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Is it working?”

“No,” I said, but my face heated.

He brushed his thumb across my flushed cheek. “I like this color, too,” he murmured.

“What else do you like?”

“I like the smell of first snow,” he said. “I like Hattie’s concoctails. I like being honest with you.”

My flush intensified and I glanced away.

When I met his eyes again, I asked, “Do you like living in the wilds on your own?”

“I’ve made my peace with it.” His brow creased. “Or, rather, I’ve found ways to make it tolerable.”

“You can put maple syrup in your porridge without sleeping in the woods.”

“Tastes different on the road, trust me,” he said. “The forest is the closest I’ve ever gotten to feeling like I belong. And I like the sense of purpose.”

“Isn’t it lonely, though?”

The arm he’d wrapped around me pulled me closer. Then his fingertips grazed the nape of my neck, sending tingles down my spine. “Not currently.”

“But usually?” I insisted.

“Usually? Yes.”

“Last night, you said this was wrong.”

His jaw clenched. “I was just trying to protect…” He trailed off, restarted. “To reiterate the risks of further entanglement. It’s one thing for me to escort you to the capital; it’s something entirely different for us to—” He broke off abruptly.

“Entangle?” I supplied.

“Exactly.”

“Do you look forward to the end of our quest, then? Going back to normal?” I nudged him playfully. “Finally being rid of me?”

He let out a long, lung-rattling sigh. “In truth, Anya,” he murmured, hugging me close, “there’s nothing I dread more than the end of our quest.”