Page 13
Chapter seven
S myth had told me to rest, and my body begged for it, so I rested for two more sleepless hours.
Gemma’s story and the prophecy preoccupied my thoughts.
When I woke, Gemma cooked the hare meat into a hearty stew and served me a heaping bowl.
Smyth watched silently to ensure I ate every last drop.
When I was finished, I retreated to the bedroom to rest some more.
I reread a book for the tenth or twelfth time to distract myself. It kind of worked.
But I spent most of the morning staring at my pale, feeble hands. Hands that were meant to draw power from Nyrida’s gods and destroy an evil sorcerer.
Frowning at my delicate fingers, I shook my head. Unlikely.
I returned to my book and let myself escape in that fairy tale, instead.
By the time I finished reading, the fading winter sun shone through the small boxed window and signaled dinnertime was soon.
I slid on my slippers and climbed into the chair under the window, shivering at the frigid air whistling through thin cracks.
I absorbed the beautiful winter image. Memorized it, because soon, I would look upon that clearing for the last time .
Birch trees, tall and thin, poked out of a thick blanket of snow.
Leafless and towering, they reached for the golden-red sky with their spindly fingers, their barren offshoots like strands of hair hiding the forest beyond.
I could see hills from this angle on the south side of the house, and I wondered if I even possessed the strength to trek across them.
For the first time, I desired that strength. The strength to move freely, explore, to learn. So for the first time in days, maybe months, I smiled—a real smile—despite my trepidation of all that would soon uproot my life.
Caz and Ezra would return tonight, and after hours of self-imposed seclusion, I actually looked forward to being social, even if it meant braving Smyth’s consuming presence.
There would be more options for food once they arrived, but Gemma insisted on heating up the rest of the stored vegetable broth to keep it from going to waste.
Caz and Ezra arrived minutes after the sun set, burdened with canvas sacks full of food and supplies.
Gemma handed me a warm bowl of vegetable broth and scurried over to help unload the cargo.
The bowl was still steaming, so I waited to avoid burning my tongue and watched the others.
Ezra hoisted freshly cut meat from one bag—venison, by the look of it. Caz unearthed multiple canvas bags of bread and eight ears of corn.
Smyth was shameless about watching me eat my broth, not a single ounce of regret in those burning brown eyes. When the others made jokes, he didn’t laugh, and his eyes held no joy. I wondered who or what had stolen the light right out of him.
“Here.” I finished my bowl of broth and looked up to see Smyth handing me a plate of bread and the freshly cooked venison he’d spent the last few minutes preparing. My mouth watered when I saw the steam coming off of it. “Eat. ”
“I’m okay.” My stomach still growled, but I told myself I was fine. There were more of us now, and we had to make sure we didn’t run out. “We can save it for later. I finished my broth.”
“I don’t care. You’ve only had rabbit stew, vegetable broth, and water all day. Not enough. Not even close.” He grabbed a clean fork and knife from beside the sink and placed them on the table next to the plate. “You’re hungry. Eat.”
But I thought of my mother, and her insistence that I stay thin. Now, I guessed, for Elias Winterton, my… fiancé.
I sighed, preparing the lie. “Thank you, but I’m not very hungry.”
“And I’m not asking.”
My throat clenched. “Elowen told me I can’t gain weight—”
“I don’t give a shit what that insufferable cow said to you.” Smyth’s voice was calm and even, but his hands clenched into fists at his side. Like a monster ready to pounce. His anger rerouted from his fists to his eyes, which burned hot with rage.
I sat, lips parted, gaping. That was my mother he spoke of. I should be angry, but just like yesterday… it felt good to feel defended.
I made the choice not to mention my mother again. The last thing I needed was for Smyth to have it out for her. She was far from mother of the year but I wasn’t sure she deserved whatever wrath this man had in store.
“ Eat ,” he commanded again.
Gemma and Ezra watched from the other side of the table, trapped between horror and amusement.
“You better do it, Ary.” Caz’s voice was muffled through his own bite. He pointed at my plate of food with his fork. “I’ve seen him lose it over a lot less.”
I sighed and complied. He and the others had gone to great lengths to ensure I was well fed. And he was right—my mother was not here .
The venison’s flavor was rich with the herbs and greenery the deer had eaten.
Hints of sage filled my nostrils, and I breathed in the luscious aroma like my life depended on it.
It was an effort to keep from groaning while my taste buds worshipped the gift of warm, buttered bread.
I shoved away the shame of being helpless and found comfort in feeling full.
“I should have tried to hunt, or… something .” I infused my voice with gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough for this. All of you. I should have tried harder. I should have—”
“Rather than denigrating yourself for failing to thrive alone in a violent, frozen wilderness, you should perhaps wonder why you were left to,” Smyth uttered, his rumbling voice firm and cold. “There is no need to thank us for ensuring you are warm, fed, and cared for. Those are bare minimums.”
Ezra and Gemma opened their mouths to protest, probably to defend my mother, Simeon, whoever else had made the call to hide me here. But they took one look at my pale, bony form—even with the warmth and life the food and fire brought to my face—and thought better of it.
“Besides, you need your strength. You begin training tomorrow, bright and early.” Smyth leaned against the wall beside the hearth, arms crossed. He tilted his head forward, brown eyes blazing. “With me.”
Sleep was again a reluctant companion that night. My thoughts were preoccupied with images of a poised warrior prince destined to be my husband, simmering flames, twisting vines, dancing wind, rushing waters, spiraling, tally-mark tattoos, and a pair of hickory eyes…
***
The inside of the coffin was gold and decorated with carved, delicate vines and flowers. Roses. Odd, because one could assume the interior quality of a coffin wouldn’t matter to a dead person .
Above me, a frosted-glass top distorted any view of the outside. Something small and warm was nestled beside me, breathing rapidly, but evenly. I couldn’t see what it was, and it was too tight of a space to try and look. I focused on my own breathing, but the air felt thin.
Something moved outside the coffin, drawing my attention. A looming figure stood over where I lay trapped, watching me. I gasped. They shifted.
“Help,” I cried weakly, lightheaded. “Please. Let me out.” When I tried to lift my hand to push against the glass, I was too confined. The small thing beside me stirred and whimpered. “No, no, no,” I sobbed feebly.
My breaths quickened, but I drew in less air, like it was dissipating, like I was losing it. I screamed. And screamed. And wailed. And… gasped… and… the figure on the other side of the glass did nothing.
“Let me go—”
“Ary! Ary, please wake up!”
A feminine voice, sharp and warm. Familiar.
I jerked in the coffin to find myself still trapped.
“Ary, stop! Oh holy gods, stop!” The voice again, from somewhere else, somewhere… far away. Panicked. Crying.
A shrill wail erupted from the tiny thing beside me. But I couldn’t help it, soothe it. I couldn’t even help myself.
From that distant place with the panicked voice, I heard a deep rumble—a demand. I screamed, hoping they could hear me from inside this casket.
“I can’t get her to wake up,” replied the familiar woman on the other side. “Please… please help her…”
Strong, swift footsteps.
Then, a lifeline.
“Come back to me, Aryella. ”
My eyes shot open. I sat up, spine ramrod straight, salty tears vying for control against the night terror’s grasp. Gasping for air, I anchored myself to the warm, strong presence keeping me steady.
“Breathe.”
I focused on his smooth, even voice like it was my own heartbeat. Sucked in a tattered breath and dug my fingernails into the rigid arms holding me steady.
“That’s it. Again.”
I took another trembling breath.
“And again. Good girl.”
I blinked away the tears and saw that Smyth was the one who anchored me. The moonlight from the window glowed on his dark-brown hair. Those promising brown eyes fixed on me as he said, “You are safe .”
Gemma stood behind him, her ebony curls wild and caramel eyes shining with fear and tears.
A small, broken noise escaped my throat. Equal relief and fear—not of him, but of whatever… that was. Wherever I had been.
“I… I was locked in a golden coffin with a cloudy glass top.” My voice trembled. “I could breathe, but the air was thin. There was someone watching me, waiting, but they never let me out, no matter how much I begged, or h-how loudly I screamed.”
Gemma shuddered. Smyth’s only response was the muscle in his jaw that always flexed.
When I noticed my fingers white-knuckling, my nails pressing into his skin, I eased my hold and lowered our hands to the bed. The bedside lamp spread a gentle glow across the small bedroom, enough light that I looked down and gasped. What I’d done… his skin…
“You… you’re bleeding.” Tiny little half-moon cuts, right where my fingers had been. “I’m sor-sorry.”
“I’ve had worse,” he assured me. True, if his scars were any indication .
Something warm and precious tugged in my chest at the realization that he hadn’t pulled away, even as I’d hurt him.
“I’ll make you some tea.” Panic gripped me by the throat when he moved to get up, and I might have reached for him out of instinct if he hadn’t added, “I’ll be back,” like he’d read my mind.
Gemma approached me carefully after Smyth left. “You were screaming and crying and I couldn’t wake you up. You were…” She shuddered. “You were scratching at your chest and your neck like you were trying to get out of your own body.”
I lifted my cold fingers to my neck and felt the sting of the thin lacerations.
The familiar burn of tears returned. I lowered my hands and saw the blood on my fingertips, on my palms—not Smyth’s blood, but mine—under the dim light of the lamp.
Bile rose in my throat. It was an effort to force it down.
“He heard you screaming and nearly busted the door down.” Gemma glanced to the door, her beautiful brow furrowing in the direction he’d gone. “I couldn’t get you to wake up, but he…” She sighed. “You’re alright.” But her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s what matters.”
Smyth returned with hot green tea—with honey, of course—and a few warm, damp towels.
He watched, leaning against the doorframe, while Gemma cleaned the blood off my neck and collarbone, as I sipped from the trembling cup—intentionally empty enough to avoid spilling.
His usual impenetrable stare was peppered with worry.
“Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?” Gemma surveyed the cuts on my neck to ensure they’d stopped bleeding. They were mild, but they stung.
I nodded, unsure if it was true. But it was still dark outside, so I had to try.
And I did sleep a few more hours. Peacefully—which may have had something to do with the soothing sound of his steady pacing outside the bedroom door.
Even the nightmares cowered before him.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
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- Page 5
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- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13 (Reading here)
- Page 14
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- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
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- Page 77