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He saw me and stopped, following my gaze to his sliced-up torso. “Ah, yes.” He had the audacity to laugh at his own wound. My chest splintered when he began to walk toward me with a slight limp. I hated his pain. “I had a plan, you know. I was only letting it think it won.”

Rage and disbelief twisted in my chest. His nonchalance was flippant and irresponsible.

He frowned at the sight of my concern. “It only smarts a little,” he assured me.

“You could have died.”

The corners of his mouth twitched again, but he repressed his smirk, sensing my anger. He wiped the blood off his hands on the front of his black pants and nodded in the direction of the beast’s corpse. “Do you know how many of those ugly fuckers I’ve killed over the years?”

“I don’t care,” I uttered through angry, horrified tears. “You could have died . ”

With a sigh, he closed the distance between us, his limp improving with each step. “Don’t cry for me, Aryella.” He stroked my chin with one thumb and my cheek with the other. “I’m not worth your tears.”

Huffing, I grabbed his wrist in my thin fingers, not caring how small or weak I looked or felt to him. From the same depths that stowed Rainar’s choking waves, I felt anger rise, equal in strength and measure. Felt it burn in my eyes. Prayed he saw it too.

“Yes. You. Are!” I gritted out.

Awe and surprise flashed through him. But Gavin showed no fear.

“I may not get to decide what role I play in this world or who I have to marry to raise up an army, but I will decide who I cry for!”

After a moment of contemplation, he leaned down, brushed his lips against my temple, and he—knowing precisely what would both irritate me and rouse me—muttered, “That’s my girl.”

Fuming, fists clenched, I growled, “You—”

“Need to eat and clean up,” he finished for me, hoisting both our bags over his shoulders with a subtle grunt before turning to the mare—the horse who had remained oddly unruffled during the violent encounter.

“And I would imagine you’re equally famished after that impressive display.

” He grabbed the mare’s reins and moved toward the village. “Let’s go.”

I groaned, rushing after him. But even with his slight limp and wounded torso—which was still dripping blood—he moved faster than me.

***

The innkeeper was afraid of Gavin the moment he gruffly tossed a bag of coins on the counter and demanded a room with two beds.

Shuddering, the poor man stared at his feet and confessed all rooms only had one.

I had quickly become accustomed to others’ fear, despite not feeling it myself.

For better or worse, I’d never been afraid of my protector.

Of course, the blood that covered him did no favors.

We climbed a set of thin, rickety stairs lit by oil lanterns. Scenic paintings lined the walls of the hall, but it was too dark to admire any details.

I could see why no rooms with two beds were available. The room was so small, it could only fit one. But it was cozy and warm, lit by one oil lamp on a table beside the bed. Enough light to cast a soft glow over the tiny space.

Gavin had paid extra to request our meals be made fresh and delivered to our room. While he cleaned up in the small attached bathroom, he insisted I eat. Beef roast, sweet peas and carrots, baked beans, sourdough bread, and milk—it was hot, delicious, and I devoured it all.

While I ate, I tried to fend off thoughts of him on the other side of the door.

Tried not to wonder if he was naked in the bath just a few paces away.

Other than the quick, terrible glimpse of my red-haired attacker in Tovick, I had never seen a man’s…

well, I struggled to imagine a full image of him bare beneath the bath water.

When he emerged from the bathroom, I was nibbling on my thumbnail with my knees tucked into my chest, empty supper plate beside me on the bed.

He wore dark pants and a clean white shirt. Unbuttoned, to allow his wounds to breathe. He was barefoot, and his dark hair was damp and loose.

Even with the open wounds on his skin, he was a sight I’d never tire of.

Relaxed. Unbound. Content. And so big . His sculpted torso glistened beneath the moonlight streaming in from the window.

Muscles in places I didn’t know existed.

I bit my lip. My breathing accelerated into quick, tiny pants when I saw the carved vee above his belt and realized it led to—

A tiny whimper escaped my throat before I could stop it. Before I knew it was there. I inhaled sharply, horrified at myself.

He heard the sound leave my throat. He saw my chest shudder.

He kept his eyes on me, tension in those brown eyes, jaw clenched.

I braced for a retort without knowing what to expect.

But he did not tease me about or acknowledge my humiliating slip of desire.

His chest rose and fell with a sigh as he leveled me with his stare.

I didn’t look away, despite my embarrassment. After the fear of truly losing him, I decided to drink him in, memorize him—whatever he gave me—until I no longer could.

“Bath is all yours,” he finally said, voice solid. Unaffected.

“You should eat,” I rushed out, eyes widening at the heat between my thighs before reining myself in. I stood from the bed, still in my comfortable, black lounge pants, wool socks, and ivory sweater from the day. “Your food is probably cold.”

I moved toward the bathroom, but he gripped my wrist and held me still.

“I didn’t thank you for helping me with that beast.” His fingers twitched against my skin. “I should have.”

I shrugged, my eyes lingering on the mesmerizing muscle beneath the tan skin of his scarred chest. The perfect amount of hair across his pecs, down his sternum to his navel, mixed with the ink all over him.

He was savage. All man . I couldn’t help it, how he made me ache.

Internal wildfire incinerated my senses before I could understand what I was feeling. “Like you said… you had a plan.”

He tilted my chin up with his finger and met my gaze. “Thank you, Aryella.”

I grinned at the memory of our first private conversation, and was reminded how I’d thanked him for saving me from that wolf, as well as his response.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I whispered .

His smirk showed me that he remembered, too.

“But,” I scowled at his chest wound, “do you want me to try to heal you? I don’t know if I’ll be able to, but I can try.” Filled with guilt, I recalled my failure with Caz. “If not, I think you’ll scar.”

“Do the scars disgust you?” he asked, his deep voice pinched.

“No,” I rushed out, brushing my fingers across the scar over my heart that barely peeked out of the neck of my shirt. “Do my scars disgust you?”

“Nothing about you disgusts me.”

My heart clenched. I smiled and brushed my fingers against his arm. “Well, I like your scars.”

It was something I’d wanted him to know that first day in Warrich.

“If you like my scars…” I felt the responding graze of his fingers against my skin. “Then let it all scar.”

My throat tightened. And I knew I wanted to— had to—feel him beneath my fingers, even if that was all I would ever have of him beyond our friendship.

“Can I see them?” I asked, rubbing the fabric of his shirt collar between my fingers. “Can I… touch them?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he nodded.

Slowly, I removed his shirt. Off his shoulders, down his arms. Purposely feeling his hot skin against my fingers as they traveled.

He was smooth in all the places that weren’t scarred and rough, textured in the places that were.

I gently ran my index finger along a pale-pink line over his collarbone.

And then I touched each scar, memorizing not just the way the skin rose and dipped, but how he reacted to me.

With shivers. Of delight, I think. I took my time.

Savored the way my body ignited, how desire pulsed through me.

One scar, wide and thick, rested at the center of his abdomen, below his open wounds.

I let my touch linger there, and then rested my palm against his skin.

He tensed and sucked in a breath. But when I went to pull away—afraid his skin was sensitive from his wound even there—he covered my hand with his, keeping me in place.

“You’re incredible.” My voice trembled in awe.

He kept silent, but I felt his eyes on me.

I touched the tattoos next. Permanent, but smooth.

“How many are there?” I asked.

“Four hundred and two.”

“Will you keep adding more?”

His voice turned grave when he answered, “Gods, I hope not.”

I gave him a sad smile, refraining from pressing for his secret. His eyes grew haunted when he spoke of them, and I refused to stab my finger into any more of his wounds.

I shifted my attention to a faded pink mark on his bicep. Too thick to be from a knife. A sword maybe, but more like he had been brushed by a flame.

“Is that a burn?” I asked.

“Yes.” His lips twitched. “That one was… an accident.”

I nodded and ran my finger along it. “From your blacksmithing days,” I realized. “Which one hurt the most?”

I wholly expected him to say the scar on his face, over his eye and down his cheek. But he took my fingers and gently rested them on the open palm of his left hand.

“The one on your hand?” I asked, surprised. Two weeks ago, he had put a gash in his right palm and acted like it was nothing.

“The one on this hand.” He gestured with his left, seeing the confusion plain on my face. “But it was worth it.”

Indeed, the faded wound looked like it still hurt. As if whatever evil had put it there marked him far beneath his skin. His darkness, that unquenchable rage—maybe whatever had happened to cause this scar was the source .

I let my fingers sweep across his abdomen, around his side, until I stood behind him.

My throat burned. I had seen these scars—how they formed cross-hatched patterns up and down his spine.

But up close, I realized it looked like he had been whipped.

I shuddered and swallowed my tears. And then, to comfort him for all the pain he’d endured, I kissed his back—the sensitive place between his shoulder blades where the scar tissue was thickest. When my lips touched his brutally textured skin, he released a deep, startled moan.

Need shot from my stomach to the throbbing between my legs as the deep sound of his pleasure rushed through me. That sound—low, coarse, and uncontrolled. I could memorize it. Savor it. Hear it forever. And instead of pushing me away, he pulled me to his front and held my head against his chest.

“Ella,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to my hair. “My Ella.” His name for me was a plea and a warning mixed together in one zealous breath.

I pressed my lips to his chest and looked up at him.

“Earlier,” I whispered, “you said you wanted me to know you, and I do. I see you.” With gentle fingers, I traced the corners of his mouth and brushed over his lips.

“You used to be unscathed and young until this world took its toll, but I see your heart, and it is good .”

Though I could hardly see in the dark, the dim light of the single oil lantern glimmered fleetingly across the sorrow marking his handsome face.

“You know yourself,” I continued, “and sometimes I envy that about you.” My voice faltered in a subconscious attempt to shy away from the words I probably shouldn’t say.

Words that would put my heart right on his chopping block.

“I love the friends and family I know, but I’ve felt detached—just…

not right— for as long as I can remember.

Truthfully, I’ve hated myself for it.” I stroked his bearded chin.

“But now there’s you, and I feel you in ways I didn’t know I could. ”

He cupped my face in his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

I lifted myself up on my toes and pressed my lips to his cheek. His beard was both soft and rough beneath my lips. “So thank you,” I whispered against his cheek, smiling against his skin, “for everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing.”

A hot rush of air escaped his lips and caressed my skin, my neck. I wanted to memorize that feeling of his breath on me. His hands. His eyes. A few torturously long moments later, his gaze landed on my lips.

A million battles raged through him in a matter of seconds. I tried to read the unspoken words in his eyes, but I couldn’t keep up.

So I made my own decision.

I kissed him. It was a delicate kiss: the gentlest touch of my mouth to his, and only for a brief moment.

Too subdued to truly taste him, because I had no idea how to kiss.

But I shivered with delight at the unexpected velvet softness of his lips framed by the igniting friction of his beard.

I memorized how he felt and savored the heat of his sweet breath as his unsteady exhale swirled in the air between our mouths.

But he didn’t kiss me back.

When I drew back and opened my eyes, I found that his were closed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Each rise and fall of his chest pulsed through my body as if his breath controlled my heartbeat.

He took my face in his hands, touched his lips to my forehead, and whispered, “Good night, Aryella.”

He turned away and left me standing there. Kicked in the gut harder than our mare ever could.

“Why?” I demanded, my voice low and shaky.

The door opened, but he paused with his hand on the knob. And then he was leaving, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway. He slammed the door behind him, not before I heard him rasp: “Because I won’t be able to stop.”