Текст книги "The poison daughter"

Автор книги: Sheila Masterson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 48 страниц)

“I’m not upset. I think I’m relieved.” The admission slips out.

Henry’s body tenses behind me for a moment, the horse slowing a bit more as if sensing his surprise, but then he relaxes and we speed up again.

I wish we could go slower. The trees whip by and I can’t drink it all in fast enough. There aren’t flowers with it being so close to winter, but I bet it’s gorgeous in the summer, green and lush and full of colors I’ve never seen.

“There tend to be more of them gathered by the city gates.” Henry’s voice is barely audible above the wind and the pounding of horse hooves. “We’ll slow down by mid-morning.”

When he said that the canopy is thick enough that the Drained lurk in the shadows, I’d assumed he only said it to inspire my cooperation, but the speed we’re traveling at and the wary glances of our traveling party suggest otherwise.

The morning is a blur of greens and browns and wispy white mist that is thickest at the low points of the forest. We only slow once to give the horses a quick rest by a stream just off the main trail, and we don’t linger long.

Henry is quiet, contemplative, not that I expect him to have anything to say to me. I know what I am to him because it’s the same thing he is to me—a burden I bear out of duty.

I’ve barely finished eating the light lunch before Henry is boosting me back on his horse and we’re off again. I knew it would be a long day since we need to reach the fort by dusk, but my hips ache from the long ride.

As we ride, I consider how they kept the rebuilt fort a secret for so long. It’s possible they had a glamourist who could cast an illusion and hide it all this time, but that would be a very skilled practitioner wielding a very strong blessing.

I wonder if the few tradesmen who traveled to town in recent years skipped it or knew that it was still alive with activity and kept their secrets. The more I learn, the less certain I am of who can be trusted, especially with how eager Henry was to learn about Rochelli.

Our group continues through the forest, Bryce and Carter leading the way with a contingent of four guards. Henry’s parents ride in front of us, and Gaven and three more guards follow behind us. Everyone else is engaged in quiet conversation, less tense than they were at the start of the journey.

“Feeling better?” Henry asks.

I bristle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He leans down so his lips graze my ear as he speaks. “I’m talking about how you were crying earlier.”

I grind my teeth. “I have terrible allergies, but I’ve acclimated.”

He chuckles, and his arm tightens around my waist as if to taunt me.

Fine. Two can play at that game.

I subtly arch my back, pressing my ass into him.

“Harlow,” he hisses. His tone is low, warning.

“You say my name like I’m a thing you’re cursed with.”

He makes a sound between a laugh and a hum of agreement. “Divine deliver me—that I may survive such a curse.”

“If they’re merciful, you won’t,” I say.

We ride in silence for a few moments, until the question that’s been crammed in my mouth finally slips out.

“Is it safe for me at Mountain Haven?”

His hand flattens against my stomach. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m trying to ask what it’s like.”

“Well, it’s not wild like you think,” Henry says. “We follow meticulous rules because that’s the only way to survive. Now, I know this will grate against your very nature, lovely, but there’s an expectation that as my wife, you’ll listen to me.”

I straighten in my seat, and he chuckles.

“Yes, I thought that might be your response, but you’ll find that strength is prized above all else there, which means that in order to stay in charge, I must appear strong and my wife needs to appear both strong and obedient.” He leans closer. “And before you take a swing at me, note that I said appear obedient. What you do in the privacy of our rooms is your business, but the easiest way to get killed at Mountain Haven is to belong to no one—and I don’t mean in a possessive way, though that’s part of it. I mean if they think you’re on your own, they will pick you off. While I have the support from most thanks to my exhaustive work securing our home, you know well that when you’re the ones risking everything and doing all the work, there are always people who think they can do a better job.”

That is something I am acutely aware of. I have no love for my father, but I have seen how hard he works to keep our people safe and the way they all think they could do better.

“What happened?” I ask. “During the attack ten years ago? How did the Drained get to you? Growing up, I always thought Mountain Haven was impenetrable—I heard the stories⁠—”

“Stone walls in front and mountain face behind?” Henry asks, his voice bitter. “Everything breaks eventually.”

I wait for him to say more, but he’s gone quiet and contemplative. I settle into the steady rhythm of the ride and the feeling of him behind me—solid, strong, protective. The arm he has wrapped around my waist occasionally tightens to draw me closer. I can’t tell if it’s out of discomfort or fear that I might fall.

At this point, he must feel my ease with the horse. My only tension comes from him behind me, breathing against the nape of my neck, crowding my space with his firm chest.

He sniffs the air just as Carter throws a fist up at the front of the group. Everyone slows nearly to a stop.

Carter holds up two fingers and everyone soundlessly falls into pairs along the narrow trail. The path grows darker, the dying shrubs and ferns pressing closer.

We ride down the incline, and the temperature plunges. The hair on the back of my neck rises, like I stepped through a ghost.

“What is this pl⁠—”

Henry’s hand clamps over my mouth. The group has almost stopped, everyone holding their breath. A faint red tinge colors the air. I squint in the dim light cutting through the thick, leafy canopy, trying to figure out if it’s something about the trees above us casting the light a strange color.

It almost looks like this place has a red aura.

Henry presses one finger to my lips in the signal to be quiet. I stare into the darkened forest to our right.

Henry sniffs the air, and his whole body goes rigid as a low hiss rises from somewhere deep in the underbrush.

“Go!” he shouts.

Carter and Bryce lead the way, taking off at a full gallop, no longer concerned about making noise. The time for caution is gone. Now we’re riding for our lives from some invisible force in the forest.

My heart pounds. I pull off my gloves and shove them in my pocket. My hands itch for a weapon, but I’m too afraid to drop my dagger in my nervousness. Henry fumbles in his pocket and then shoves a glass vial into my hand.

“Hold this.”

Henry yanks off his gloves and shoves them in his pockets. He unsheathes a vicious-looking sword and slows the horse. “Uncork it and pour it over the blade.”

I do as he says, with considerable difficulty at our pace, dribbling the liquid haphazardly over the blade. “What is it?”

“Well water,” he says, urging the horse on faster.

Our mount is steadier than I expected, but I place a hand on his neck anyway.

“Hold on,” Henry says.

I’ve learned about our history and the magic of the Drained Wood since I was a child, but reading a story in a book or hearing it around a campfire doesn’t do justice to the horror of hearing the deafening rush of the current of blood mist.

In the pub tales I’ve heard, it’s a magical current that flows through the Drained Wood in a seemingly random pattern, always with a horde of Drained coming just behind it. In reality, the mist rushes in like a furious river, giving me no time to orient to the path ahead before the red haze blocks out everything.

The air smells like iron and salt. I lean back into Henry, fighting against the suffocating smell of blood.

“Just breathe. We just need to stay on the horse and keep riding. But fear attracts them and your heart is pounding. Just take a breath,” Henry says.

“How do you⁠—”

He shifts, and I realize I’ve grabbed his hand. “I can feel your heart in your hand.”

A startled laugh bubbles out of me at the thought of ever offering my heart to a man so freely. The laugh is cut short when something barrels into me from the right.

Henry curls around me, taking the brunt of the impact as we crash to the forest floor. I roll off of him and press up to a seat.

He’s on his feet in a second, turning in a slow circle with his sword at the ready. I stand and reach for my dagger. The moment my fingers brush the cool metal hilt, sharp claws curl around my wrist, and I’m dragged toward my bloody death.

OceanofPDF.com

14HENRY

All sense of strategy flies out the window the moment Harlow yelps and gets dragged into the mist. I follow the sound of her struggle.

I hate that I could track her by scent alone—hate that I can smell the hint of my laundry soap mixed in with her floral perfume. Mostly, I hate that I’m following her more out of a sense of possessiveness than duty.

I should be thinking about what they’ll say back at home if I can’t even protect my fiancée on one trip through the Drained Wood. Instead, I’m thinking about one of those things touching her—and it’s making me furious.

I run faster through the mist. “Harlow?”

There’s a grunt and then the snap of teeth, and my blood runs cold. I sprint toward the sound and nearly stumble over Harlow.

She’s splayed on the ground, blood sprayed across her face and neck. Panic twists in my throat as the gray-skinned beast above her snaps its teeth in her face, right as she plunges her dagger up through its chin. The beast shudders and collapses on top of her. Harlow rolls it off of her.

I look her over as she rises to her feet.

She wipes her face on the edge of her cloak. “It’s not my blood.” She sounds calm, but she’s holding her left arm gingerly.

“Did it bite you?”

She goes still, and horror tears through me. Then, she turns and jabs her dagger forward, right as a Drained one springs from the bushes beside us. The blade plunges into its throat and she drags it across its neck until it crumbles to ash.

“How did you⁠—”

“They have an aura,” she says. “Or, rather, they have the absence of an aura.” She closes her eyes and tips her face toward me. “Over your left shoulder.”

I turn and slash to my left as a beast leaps from the mist. Its skin hisses where my blade struck, and it bellows a blood-curdling screech.

“What is that?” She darts to my left, bringing a knee up into the stomach of one of the Drained as it bursts from the mist. It grunts and tumbles to the side, and she buries her dagger in its eye.

“It’s the well water that hurts them.”

She turns toward me with wide eyes. “How do you have well water, and how do you know that and we don’t?”

She looks remarkably calm, but her heart is pounding. I’m sure the Drained can smell her adrenaline. I need to get her the fuck out of these woods.

She waits a beat for me to answer, then closes her eyes. “Two coming from your left.”

“You can see auras with your eyes closed.”

“Yes, and I’m less distracted by the mist when I do.” Her eyes snap open as a beast leaps from the mist with blackened claws swiping through the air. I swing my sword, slicing through its throat. I can barely hear the dull thud of its head hitting the forest floor over the swirling blood storm.

It’s getting louder as the mist gets thicker. I whistle, praying Nightsong hasn’t run off. The sound of hooves grows louder as the horse appears through the mist. He’s been treated by those with a special healing gift to be steadier in stressful situations and to recover faster. It’s why he can carry the two of us across the forest so quickly with so few breaks.

I pat his side, happy to see him in one piece. “Good boy, Nightsong.”

Behind me, Harlow gasps. I turn to watch as she’s tackled to the ground by an enormous, ghastly-looking Drained. I can tell that it’s new by the fact that it still has most of its hair, and its skin is only mildly gray. Its hands still vaguely resemble human fingers, unlike the more advanced Drained, whose claws extend all the way to their palms. Its posture is more upright, unlike the more advanced, hunched stature of long-turned creatures, and its body is more filled out and less gaunt.

I grab it by the shoulder and yank it off of Harlow. She grunts as its claws come free bloody. It flails, trying to reach her, shoving its bloodied claws into its mouth.

I plunge my sword into its heart, and it keeps up its frenzied thrashing another moment before turning to dust. Harlow leaps to her feet.

“They’re too frenzied. We have to get out of here now,” I say.

I can hear her bodyguard fighting nearby, and someone else struggling a little farther away, but we have to go or we’re going to be completely overwhelmed.

I whistle loudly three times: the signal to scatter. Everyone who can will race on to the fort. We aren’t too far now, and this is a last resort—but I need to get Harlow there safely or all of our plans will be for nothing.

Pulling out my dagger with one hand, I reach for her with the other. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

I choke on a startled laugh. “After all the lying, your honesty is refreshing, lovely. We have to go now, and I am your only way out of this mess.” I grip her wrist, flipping her hand palm-up. “If I can spray some of your fresh blood here, they will surge here and not after us.”

“Why not use your own blood?” she asks.

“Because you’re so frightened. Yours smells better to them.”

Her face slides into a furious scowl, but she opens her fingers wide, waiting for me. I slide my dagger along her palm, holding her gaze, waiting for her to flinch.

She doesn’t. She closes her eyes, scanning the surroundings for more Drained.

As I watch, blood pools in her palm in a dark line. I flip her hand over and let it pour onto the dried leaf detritus of the forest floor. The coppery scent of it mixes with the smell of moss and the ripe scent of decay coming off of the Drained that were not cut with well-blessed blades. They’ll rot slowly instead of turning to ash.

My focus is so intent on her hand that I swear I can hear the first drops of her blood hitting the ground over the roar of the mist. Most colors are murky in my mind, but I can still remember blood-red, even if I haven’t seen it in ten years. Maybe it’s because the night of the attack is imprinted in my brain forever. Maybe it’s because of the way the streets of Mountain Haven were practically painted in the blood of my people.

I give it another moment, until there’s a decent puddle, before I pull out a handkerchief and wrap it around her hand. The mist is so thick, I can barely make out Harlow’s face.

“Harlow.”

She blinks rapidly. “What about your family?”

“They’ll be fine, but you will not. Get on the fucking horse.”

I boost her onto Nightsong. A Drained one bursts from the shrubbery next to us and I cut through its chest with my sword. It sizzles as I hop up behind Harlow and urge Nightsong into a gallop.

My horse—or, rather, my late sister’s horse—is used to this, well-trained and guided and protected by magic. He’s warded against the Drained, but most importantly, he’s as calm as he is headstrong.

The more ground we cover, the more the mist thins. My heartbeat starts to settle, and it’s in my own body’s calming that I notice how badly Harlow is shaking. I pull her closer, trying to hug her cloak more tightly around her body. Both of her trembling hands grab my wrist, but she doesn’t pull my arm away. She clings to me.

She was so calm in the moment, but I know this response—the delayed tempest of adrenaline that comes after the body knows it’s safe. It’s born out of violence and trauma. I’ve seen it enough in those who survived the attack ten years ago. I’ve seen it enough in myself.

“It’s just shock. It’ll pass in a few minutes,” I say.

She nods once, her body relaxing into me ever so slightly. When I stroke my thumb on the back of her hand, she goes rigid again.

“I don’t need coddling. It’s just unspent adrenaline,” she snaps, scowling at me over her shoulder.

I hate that I enjoy her prickliness. It should put me off, but I either have a true death wish, or I’m twisted enough to delight in the fact that it will take time to break her. It will make besting her more satisfying. If she were some wilting flower, I would feel bad—like I was taking advantage of someone who was truly innocent in all of this. But knowing that she’s a viper in a vixen’s clothing frees me from that fear.

She shifts yet again, trying to put space between us, and I’d laugh at her stubbornness if every shift didn’t rub her perfect backside against my cock. Divine deliver me. Much as I remind myself she’s poison, my body doesn’t care. She’s going to drive me insane before we ever reach the fort.

I know it’s just the afterglow of the fight—the thrill of surviving death—that makes me want to live as hard as I can. I know the impulse to drink and fuck and carry on—to live like I’ll die tomorrow. It has nothing to do with her and everything to do with my nature and the magic humming in my body.

The forest begins to thin, and I slow Nightsong where the trail grows wider and brighter. We come around the bend, and I blow out a sigh of relief as I spot my parents, two guards, and Carter and Bryce on the trail ahead of us. I knew they’d be fine, but it’s still a relief to see them safe.

I pull Nightsong to a stop next to them. My father looks us over, sniffing the air.

“She’s hurt.” His tone is disapproving.

“Actually, she’s fine. Just eager to get off this horse,” Harlow says.

My mother’s eyebrows fly up, and she purses her lips the way she does when she’s trying not to smile. It takes me back to simpler times, when Holly would do something reckless and my mother would be trying to scold her but unable to keep from laughing.

Horse hooves pound somewhere down the trail behind us. Harlow turns and leans to peer around me as her bodyguard and the rest of our men appear.

Despite his age, Gaven looks unshaken by the battle. His clothing is splattered with dark blood, but his face is stoic.

“He lives to lurk another day,” Harlow taunts, but I can tell she’s relieved to see him.

“Onward,” my father says.

We continue down the trail at a slower pace, and Harlow’s previous terror seems to be forgotten. She looks around, peering into the forest on either side, drinking in every inch of the scenery as if it will disappear the moment she looks away. I suppose for someone who has lived her whole life behind big city walls, she’s feeling the impulse to soak it in.

The last few miles before the hill to Mountain Haven are quiet and uneventful.

“What will happen when we arrive?” she asks as we clear the forest and begin up the steep mountain trail.

“I wouldn’t expect a welcome party, if that’s what you mean. I’ll take you to bathe and you’ll have time to rest and have dinner in your rooms. You’ll be formally introduced tomorrow at dinner.”

She glances down the side of the cliff as Nightsong turns up a switchback.

“It’s better if you don’t look down,” I say.

She meets my gaze over her shoulder. “I think it’s better if I do.”

I’m startled by her defiance, even so far from home—by the way she didn’t flinch when I cut her hand and made her bleed all over the forest floor. This woman, who grew up in safety, seems so undaunted by danger.

The large stone wall of Mountain Haven finally comes into view as we round the bend in the trail, and Harlow gasps. The sunset paints the cream stone brilliant orange. She stares at it, transfixed by the vicious scar that marks the wall in a brighter shade of white—installed ten years ago when the Drained came and fractured our world.

“That is what survival looks like,” I say.

Every time I see it from the outside, I feel the same creeping dread up my spine. The fear comes in these moments as fresh as it was that night. I’m here and whole, but looking at my home from the outside, it’s almost comforting to see a monument of all we lost that night.

“They broke through.” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“They did.”

“But how? I thought they just broke through the doors.” She turns to look at me, her expression a mixture of horror and curiosity.

She is either the world’s greatest actress, or she really doesn’t know anything.

We crest the last hill, and the large metal doors creak open as my parents approach the gates.

Harlow sits a little straighter, her gaze darting around the entry.

“Looking for an easy escape, lovely?” I taunt.

“Just a prisoner sizing up her cell, my feral wolf,” she counters, her voice overly sweet.

As soon as Nightsong trots through the entrance, I feel the weight of eyes on us. Harlow keeps her gaze straight ahead, like she can feel it too.

As we wind through the narrow streets of Mountain Haven, Harlow’s composure slips. She gawks at the structured housing and the bustling little city we’ve built. “I thought you said you went to ground.”

“We did. For a year. While we rebuilt the walls.”

“I thought you said a lot of your people died.”

“They did.” I offer no further explanation.

She continues openly staring at the busy streets as we ride through the six levels of the fort toward Havenwood House.

The people pay us little mind. Though some stop to gape at her, most continue about their day, trying to get tasks completed before dusk.

When we reach the stables, I dismount and help Harlow down. She’s steadier on her feet than I expected her to be, but her hips must be sore.

Her guard dismounts and rushes to her side, looking at the blood matted to the slashes in her cloak.

She bats his hands away. “It’s a scratch, don’t fuss.”

Gaven gives me a look that would wither a lesser man. “You had a responsibility.”

Harlow presses a hand to his chest. “I’m fine, Gaven. Henry got me here in one piece.” She meets his gaze, her voice low. “I’ve seen worse.”

He frowns, but his shoulders relax and he takes a step back, folding his arms behind his back. “I’ll need a full layout of the manor with all entry and exit points, and I’d like to see Harlow’s rooms.”

“She’ll be staying with me,” I say.

I’m not sure what madness drives me to think it’s a good idea, but several of our guards are already crowding around the manor doors for a glimpse of her, and I’m not about to let her become a vulnerability to some lesser man who wants my place of power. I did not fight this hard for this long to lose my chance at vengeance now. My family didn’t suffer unimaginable losses and drag our people back from the brink of extinction so that I could let some bystander snatch away my vengeance.

My father gives me a side-eye, but it’s Harlow who crosses her arms and glares at me.

“That’s inappropriate for an unwed couple,” she says.

I clear my throat. “I meant you’ll stay in the adjoining rooms meant for my wife.”

She’s supposed to stay in guest quarters for propriety’s sake until the ceremony, but our people aren’t terribly traditional, and I want her close so that I know what she’s up to.

I hold out an arm for her to take. She threads her left hand through it, wincing when I bump her. I know she hurt that wrist.

“I’ll take you to the baths and I’ll heal your wounds.”

“That would be highly inappropriate,” she says, louder than she needs to.

“Are you suddenly modest, wife?” I say, my voice low.

“Are you suddenly unconcerned with appearances, husband? After spending all that time to perfect your hair?”

Bryce lets out a low whistle beside me.

“Surely you have a female healer who sees to women,” she says.

I grind my teeth. “Yes, but I am the best, and I am your fiancé, so I will do it.” I lean closer. “Plus, we should talk about house rules.”

Her face is awash with indecision as if she’s trying to predict if it’s better to fall in line or cause a scene. She glances at the warriors gathered by the entrance and nods once in acquiescence.

Harlow’s gaze passes over everyone. I know she’s assessing who has blessings from which Divine. She tosses one last glance over her shoulder at her bodyguard as I usher her inside.

I lead her down the hall toward the stairs to our private wing.

Harlow hesitates at the bottom of the stairs. “I thought you said we were going to the baths.”

“Changed my mind. We’re going to our private washroom upstairs.”

She stops suddenly, her gaze focused on our left, where a servant has propped the ballroom door open.

Harlow openly gawks at the ornate room, and I bite back a smile. I like seeing her disoriented. She expected us to live like a bunch of savages, not to be more technologically sophisticated than her fancy city. Being so remote has made us resourceful, and being much smaller than the city has made us agile in ways they simply can’t be.

“I’ll take you for a spin around the floor after our wedding, lovely,” I say.

She glares at me, releases my arm, and storms up the stairs ahead of me. She pauses at the top.

“Straight,” I say.

She walks down the hallways quickly, but I can see her counting the doors in her periphery, mapping the house in her head. Her training is much better than I expected. Given her status, I’d made a lot of incorrect assumptions about her.

“To your right.”

She places her hand on the door to our right and pushes it open.

Aware of her bodyguard following behind us, I turn and nod at the door across the hall. “Make yourself at home.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “She’s to be treated with respect.”

“I’ll afford her the same respect she does me,” I say.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I grin and close the door behind us. I nearly run into her back when she stops just inside the door.

“This is your room,” she says.

“Our room.”

Her gaze goes to the bed immediately.

“Imagining our happily-ever-after, lovely?”

“More like imagining smothering you with those fancy pillows,” she snaps.

She crosses the room and steps through the closet, into the washroom. She runs her hand over the large stones on the edge of the tub.

“Sunstones for your bath. You put them in until the water is the temperature you like.”

She nods and places most of them in the tub. Then she turns and begins opening all the cabinets in the vanity, riffling through my things as if I’m not standing right there.

“Looking for something?”

“Gauze,” she says without looking up.

“You won’t need it. Once you bathe, I’ll heal you.”

She opens her mouth to argue but must think better of it. She crosses to the door on the other side of the washroom and pushes it open, standing in the threshold of her closet for a moment. “What are these?”

“Dresses for you,” I say.

“I already have clothes.”

“And I had more designed for you. A seamstress will take care of any alterations and fit you for additional clothing of your choosing.”

She holds up a hanger with dark lace lingerie.

“You’re welcome to skip undergarments if you prefer,” I say. “Your room is on the other side of the closet, so I’m close if you need me.”

She glowers at me, hooks the hanger on the bar, and steps back into the washroom. “Fine. Get out.” She peels off her cloak and tosses it at me.

The wound on her shoulder is worse than I thought. Her sweater and undershirt are shredded. She presses her palm to it, and it comes away bloody. The scent of it hits me and I fight the impulse to yank off all the layers and look at how bad it truly is. It’s only then that I realize her hand is still trembling.

I should not care if she’s hurt. I don’t care if she’s hurt—except that her being hurt reflects poorly on me, and it chafes that she won’t just let me fix it.

“You must be sore. I can help you⁠—”

“Get out of the Divine-damned washroom, Henry. I’ll be fine without you hovering.”

I back out of the room, close the door, and dart off to bathe somewhere else.

It must not hurt that badly because Harlow takes an obscenely long bath. When she finally opens the washroom door to let me in, I’ve already bathed and changed.

Her skin looks light gray in my monochrome vision. She’s flushed, her skin dewy, damp hair dripping onto her robe.

She sits on the edge of the tub, and I kneel in front of her.

I lift my hand to heal her, and she flinches.

We both freeze. That reaction is one of a woman braced for a blow. Her eyes go wide, like she’s shown me something she didn’t intend to.

It’s such an obvious tell. I can’t decide if this is the act or if she’s so exhausted from our travels that this is the true moment where her mask has slipped.

“I would never raise a hand to you,” I whisper. “Unless you wish me to.”

She purses her lips. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I feel a pressing need for a slap.”

I laugh in spite of myself. Thank the Divine. She’s still well enough to be sarcastic. “Let’s see that shoulder.”

She lets the robe slip, revealing smooth, pale skin marred by five jagged slashes stretching from her shoulder across her collarbone.

“Does it hurt?”

She pulls her damp hair out of the way with her good arm. “It’s just a little tender.”

I place my hand gingerly over the mark and her pain hits me, bright and blinding. Harlow is a liar. She’s in agony. Now I wonder if she was really shaking from shock after all or if she was just in more pain than I realized.

I press my magic into the wound, keeping my gaze fixed on the skin knitting back together.

Her eyes burn into me. “Your aura flares when you’re working.”

I hum in agreement.

“It also flares when you’re feeling possessive.”

Her observant nature is irritating. I don’t like that she has the upper hand.

“I don’t feel possessive. I feel responsible.” It’s easier to lie to her than it is to lie to myself. “I told you that the men here need to understand that you’re mine and I’m not afraid to show them.”

“They can’t see magic.”

“But they can sense it.”

“How?” she asks.

“A prickling feeling. It’s difficult to explain.”

She goes rigid.

“The itching will be worse because the wound was worse.”

She nods, squeezing her eyes closed.

The wounds heal perfectly. I leave my hand there until she finally blinks her eyes open.

“It will be tender for another few days, so you’ll have to take it easy. Now let me see your wrist.”

Not waiting for her to argue, I take hold of it. She winces. Her pale skin is mottled with bruises that are varying shades of gray to me, but likely purple to her. My fingers brush a lump in the bone, and the blaring white pain lances my mind.