Page 21

Chapter 20

I woke to the feel of his mouth on my skin.

Warm lips, slow and steady, brushing across the swell of my breast.

My eyes opened halfway, the room still dusky with early light. His body was half-curled around mine, his hand resting low on my stomach, thumb drawing idle circles. I felt him shift again—his mouth trailing higher, closing over my nipple with quiet purpose.

I gasped, soft and sharp, and his eyes lifted to mine.

“Morning,” I breathed.

His mouth released me with a soft sound. He pressed his forehead against my chest and exhaled. “Morning,” he said, rough with sleep.

We’d fallen asleep like this, tangled together in the dark—his breath on my neck, my hand resting over the old scar beneath his ribs. No words, not after. Just quiet. Steady. A stillness I hadn’t known I needed until I was wrapped in it.

Now, waking to him like this—no masks, no retreat—I felt something loosen in my chest. Like I’d finally stopped bracing for the moment he’d pull away.

It was disorienting, in its own quiet way. To want. To be wanted. To feel safe enough to stay soft in the aftermath.

I shifted, just enough for our legs to tangle, for my hip to brush the hard line of him beneath the blankets. His hand flexed slightly on my stomach, and then—

His fingers moved lower, slipping between my thighs without hesitation. I was already slick, the soreness between my thighs a slow, pulsing reminder of the night before—of how fully he’d taken me, how completely I’d let him. He kissed the center of my chest again, the soft spot between my ribs, while his fingers worked me open with slow, certain care.

My breath hitched, but my hips didn’t move. My hands stayed fisted in the blanket, knuckles tight. I wanted him, wanted this, wanted more, but some old instinct still held me back, like I needed permission to let go.

His fingers slowed. “You never stop thinking, do you?" he murmured.

I exhaled, shaky. “Hard habit to break.”

He huffed a breath against my skin. Close to a laugh. Then—silence, except for the rhythm of his touch and my own ragged breaths.

My grip on the blanket eased. My hips tilted into his hand.

He gave a low sound of approval and kissed me again, lower this time, slower. I let my eyes fall closed. Let the thoughts go quiet. Let the pleasure rise.

Let him in.

Then—three knocks against the door.

I startled, breath catching.

Kazrek didn’t. He moved his free hand to cover my mouth gently, eyes still locked with mine.

“I'm not done yet,” he said softly.

His fingers kept their pace, precise and unrelenting. And with my mouth sealed beneath his broad palm, I came—trembling, breathless, muffled and undone. The sound that escaped me was more laughter than moan, helpless and joy-wrecked. I curled into him, pulse pounding against his wrist.

When the last wave passed, he kissed my temple. Just once.

Then, from the other side of the door: “If you’re both still alive in there,” came Vorgrim’s gravelly voice, “Selior’s downstairs.”

Kazrek let out a long breath, low and rough. He lifted his head and called back, his voice calm but edged with warning. “Give us a minute.”

A pause. Then the sound of Vorgrim retreating down the stairs, boots heavy on the old wood.

Kazrek shifted, pulling away from me with a final brush of his hand against my thigh. He stood, naked in the gray light spilling through the curtains, and for a moment, I just… looked.

Broad shoulders, thick with muscle and marked with old ink. His back was a map of scars and strength, and when he bent to pick up his trousers, the curve of his ass made something low in my stomach tighten all over again. Even the backs of his thighs were powerful—dense and solid, the body of a man built to carry weight. When he straightened and dragged the fabric up over his hips, my breath caught. He wasn’t trying to be seductive—he just was. Every inch of him. The kind of man you didn’t just look at—you felt him. In your bones. In your knees.

He pulled his tunic over his head, the hem catching on the ridge of muscle at his stomach before settling into place.

Kazrek turned then, adjusting the belt at his waist, and caught me staring. His eyes darkened slightly—just a flicker—but he didn’t say a word. Just crossed to me in three long strides.

He leaned down, one hand braced beside my head, the other finding my jaw. His thumb swept gently beneath my cheekbone, and then he kissed me—slow and quiet.

“I’ll wait downstairs,” he said, voice low. "Take your time."

I nodded, heat still pulsing behind my ribs.

He lingered for one more second—like maybe he didn’t want to go, not really—then turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

I lay there a moment longer, staring at the low ceiling, the grain of the beams overhead blurred by sleep I hadn’t fully shaken. The scent of skin and sweat and smoke still clung to the blankets, and my body still thrummed with the aftermath of his hands on me.

Then I sat up.

Slowly. Carefully. My muscles ached in places that hadn't been used in far too long, and there was a tender sort of soreness between my legs that made me press my thighs together, just to feel it again.

I pulled the sheet around me and rose slowly, bare feet meeting the cool floor. At the basin by the hearth, I splashed water over my face, then the back of my neck. I tried not to think of the dark stone in my drawer. Or the elf downstairs. Or the way Maeve had said the shadows whispered to her.

But they came anyway, creeping back in like cold around the edges of a closed door.

I wrapped the sheet tighter around my shoulders. The scent of Kazrek was still in the cloth—cedar and ironroot and the faintest trace of the oil he used on his hair. I pressed the sheet tighter to my chest, breathing him in one last time. Then I let it fall.

My dress was draped over the chair, the fabric wrinkled and faintly scented with firelight and mead. I stepped into it slowly, wincing a little as I tugged the bodice back into place. It clung more snugly than I remembered—maybe because of how aware I was now of the places he’d touched. Where his hands had rested. Where his mouth had lingered.

I reached for my shawl, which had fallen across the back of the other chair. It took me a moment to settle it around my shoulders, fingers fumbling with the pin as I tried to fasten it at my collarbone. Modesty, I told myself. But it was more than that. It was armor. The soft, worn kind that didn’t clink or shine, but made me feel held all the same.

When I turned to the mirror above the wash basin, I hesitated.

I looked.

Not long. Not deeply. But enough.

The circles beneath my eyes were still there, but softened somehow. Less sharp. My cheeks held a flush that hadn’t come from embarrassment, and my mouth… by the Alders, my mouth looked kissed. Not swollen. Not bruised. Just softened. Like he’d drawn something out of me I hadn’t realized I’d buried.

I reached up and tucked a stray lock of red hair behind my ear, smoothing it down with damp fingers. The mirror didn’t lie.

I looked like someone who’d been touched. Who’d been wanted.

And more than that—someone who’d let herself want back.

For a second, it rattled me. The woman staring back wasn’t the one who always had a plan, who always kept her shoulders straight and her jaw locked tight.

But maybe… that wasn’t weakness.

Maybe it was just living.

I drew in a breath. Let it out slow. Then turned away from the mirror and crossed to the door.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I descended the narrow staircase. The inn was quiet, hushed in that way things get the morning after a long night. Most of the tables had been cleared, though a few mismatched chairs still sat askew, as if the revelers who left them behind hadn’t quite made a clean exit. Low voices murmured from the corner table near the hearth.

Kazrek sat with his back to the fire, its steady warmth casting a faint glow along the curve of his jaw. Vorgrim lounged across from him, mug in hand, his bulk slouched but his eyes sharp. And between them, the elf with silver-marked skin that I saw the night the caravan first rode into town.

I slipped into the seat Kazrek had already pulled out for me.

The table was heavy with food. A bowl of roasted root vegetables sat between a plate of split rolls and a slab of spiced oatcake. There was a pot of something dark and savory steaming near the center—maybe stew or porridge—and beside my plate, already waiting, a cup of tea still piping hot. Kazrek poured a splash of honey into it.

“Good morning,” I murmured, smoothing the napkin over my lap.

Vorgrim smirked over his mug. “Morning, indeed.”

I ignored him, reaching for the small dish of butter. But before I could spread it over the torn bit of bread in my hands, Kazrek caught my wrist, gently but firmly. He took the piece from me and set it aside, then ladled a hearty portion of the stew into the bowl in front of me.

“You need to eat properly,” he said.

I exhaled through my nose, but the warmth in my chest unraveled something tight nonetheless. I picked up the spoon and took a bite. It was good—rich, spiced, the kind of food that settled deep in the stomach and stayed there.

Vorgrim chuckled, setting down his mug. “Orcs like feeding their women,” he mused, tapping one thick finger against the table. “Something instinctual in our blood. Strength calls to strength, but we’re practical about it. Can’t have you wasting away.”

I shot him a dry look over the rim of my spoon. “I've never been at risk of that."

Selior, who had been quietly sipping his tea, finally spoke, his voice lighter than I'd expected. “I had an orc lover once who fed me like that.”

The spoon paused halfway to my mouth. Vorgrim blinked, clearly not expecting that.

Selior’s expression didn’t shift. “He was a warrior with a laugh like broken bells and hands like stone. Kept wild dogs and honey wine. Called me delicate even when I broke his ribs in a sparring ring.”

Kazrek raised a brow, not quite a smile, but something close.

“He’s dead now,” Selior added without ceremony. “Tried to outrun a firestorm in the Dagger Plains.” He picked up his tea, sipped once, and nodded slightly, as if confirming the taste. “Didn’t work.”

A quiet settled over the table—not solemn, exactly, but respectful. I glanced at Kazrek, but his gaze was fixed on Selior. Curious, not wary. Maybe a little surprised.

Vorgrim cleared his throat. “Stars, Selior. You always open with stories like that?”

Selior tilted his head, unbothered. “Only when I’m trying to decide who’s worth talking to.”

“Have we passed, then?” I asked.

Selior looked at me fully for the first time. And when he did, I felt it—not a jolt, not a chill, but a sort of internal hush. Like my thoughts had stilled to hear something I couldn’t quite make out.

“You passed the moment you saw the shadows and didn’t turn away.”

I paused, my spoon hovering just above the bowl, the weight of Selior’s words settling over me. Kazrek shifted beside me; I could feel him measuring the elf, the quiet way his presence sharpened in subtle increments. Not fear, not even real suspicion. Just… awareness. Like he, too, was trying to decide how much trust Selior had earned with just a handful of words.

I set the spoon down carefully, the soft clink against the ceramic unnaturally loud in the tense quiet.

“How do you know about the shadows?” I asked at last.

Selior sipped his tea, utterly unbothered, his silver-marked skin catching the firelight in strange ways—as if the glow clung to him longer than it should before releasing. He studied me for a beat, and then the smallest smile curved at the corner of his mouth.

“I see things,” he said simply.

It wasn’t an answer. Or, at least, not one I knew what to do with.

I’d dealt with plenty of cryptic, self-important scholars in the past—scribes who liked to talk in circles, pretending it made them wise. But something about Selior’s certainty held weight, like he wasn’t trying to confuse me, only deciding how much I was ready to hear.

No games. Not yet.

I reached into the folds of my shawl and withdrew the small scrap of parchment. Flattening it carefully against the table, I turned it so Selior could see the rune I’d copied from the cracked pendant.

“This is what I saw,” I said, keeping my voice neutral, almost casual. As if this weren’t the very thing that had kept me awake last night.

Selior studied the drawing in silence. His fingers didn’t touch the parchment, but his silver-marked eyes flicked over the lines and curves with the precision of someone reading more than ink on paper. The firelight behind him flickered, the shadows stretching long across the table, and something in his expression darkened—just for a fraction of a second.

Then he exhaled softly, as if amused or resigned, and leaned back in his chair. The parchment stayed where it was. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t speak. Not yet.

Instead, he reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a slender, carved pipe. The stem was bone-white, smooth from years of use, and the bowl bore delicate runes that whispered faintly when they caught the light. Without hurry, Selior packed the tobacco, struck flint to light it, and took one long, thoughtful draw. Smoke curled from his lips, wreathing his face in shifting patterns.

"There was a woman once," Selior said, voice low as smoke drifted from his pipe. "She lived at the edge of the Moonshadow Forest. Every morning, she’d wake to find strange gifts on her doorstep—flowers that bloomed in darkness, stones that sang when held to the light, feathers that never stilled."

He paused, taking another drag. "She thought them beautiful. Harmless. Until the day she followed the shadows that left them... and found herself in a place where the trees grew sideways and the stars shone up from pools of midnight water."

My jaw tightened. "If this is meant to be a warning—"

"She never returned," Selior continued, as if I hadn't spoken. His eyes met mine, silver-bright and knowing. "Sometimes it's better not to look too closely at the gifts darkness brings."

The quiet that followed felt heavy, weighted with meaning I didn't want to untangle. But I couldn't stop thinking about Maeve—about the way shadows seemed to reach for her, about the whispers she claimed to hear.

"You said I was worth talking to," I said finally, my voice harder than before. "So talk to me. No more stories, no more warnings. My niece needs help, not riddles."

Selior held my gaze for a long moment, pipe forgotten in his hand. Then, something in his expression shifted—not softened, exactly, but changed. Like he was seeing past the surface of things, into depths I couldn't fathom.

"Some knowledge isn’t mine to give," he finally said, setting the pipe aside. He tapped the edge of the parchment with one long finger, not quite touching the rune. "You want someone who’s seen this before and survived. Find Sylwen."

Kazrek’s brow furrowed. “The runemaster?”

Selior nodded once. “He’s already paid the price.”

Something in the way he said it made the back of my neck prickle. A warning, quiet and deliberate. But I didn’t flinch. Whatever it was—whatever it cost—I would pay it.

I gathered the parchment, tucking it back into my shawl. "Where can we find him?"

"The Runery," Selior said, rising from his chair with fluid grace. "Though I suggest you wait until evening. Sylwen prefers the quiet hours." He paused, then added almost gently, "And Rowena? When you go... leave the child at home."

Before I could press him further, he was gone—slipping away like smoke between shadows.

Vorgrim drained his mug and stood with a grunt. "Well, that was cheerful." He clapped Kazrek on the shoulder. "I'll leave you two to sort out your day. Try not to get cursed or eaten by shadows."

I waited until his heavy footsteps faded before looking at Kazrek. "The Runery?"

"I know where it is." His hand found mine under the table, warm and steady. "We don't have to go today."

I thought of Maeve, probably waking up now, asking Auntie Brindle for pancakes and stories. Safe, for the moment. Protected. But for how long?

"Yes," I said quietly. "We do."