Magick. The word sends a shiver through me, and an image of the card that seems to have started all this flashes behind my eyes. “Magick isn’t real,” I mumble, more to myself than to him. “Why is this happening? What is this place?”
“You’re no longer in your homeland, Fawn. This is Towerfall, and in this realm, a select few wield its true power.” His crow-black gaze meets mine. “Our worlds—yours and mine—exist together in layers. Most live and die without ever knowing these layers exist. But sometimes, things can pass through from one to the other.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit, my voice thin and faraway as the tea continues to take hold.
Kane’s dark hair falls in front of his shoulders, and he brushes it back. “In time, you will. For now, rest. You must regain your strength.”
“Kane.” I blink up at him, and my vision swims, my body yearning for rest and the oblivion of sleep. “Am I dying?”
“Not while I’m in control.”
Exhaustion finally overwhelms me, and I give in to the weight of my eyelids and the promise of darkness.
Seven
I slowly drift back to consciousness, and while the pain in my side is still there, it’s more bearable. The room is bathed in soft golden light streaming in through a grimy window above the bed. Dust motes float in the shafts of sun that cast a warm glow over the stone walls and wooden beams darkened with age and soot. Beyond the pane of dingy glass are puddles of sunlight caught between tree trunks and branches, illuminating their leaves neon green.
A blanket, rough but strangely comforting, is tucked beneath my bare arms and snugly around my body. I’m sticky with sweat, and I shift slightly, wincing at the burning ache in my side.
You’re still alive, Hannah.The pain is proof of that.
I lift the blanket and peek under. My fingers find the bandage neatly wrapped around my waist and tinged with traces of dried blood.
Kane helped me. He saved me.
But why?
The door creaks open, and Kane’s strong figure is silhouetted against the afternoon light. He carries an armful of firewood and a bunch of onions pulled right from the ground, dirt still clinging to their roots. The sunlight catches the edges of his broad shoulders, casting deep shadows that stretch across the room. His steps are long and easy as he makes his way to the hearth, the weight of the firewood barely registering.
He sets the logs down with a muted thud. Then he picks up a knife and turns back to the onions. The blade glints in the light, and he looks over his shoulder at me, his expression inscrutable.
“You should rest,” he says firmly but not unkindly.
“I’d rather sit up. It’s weird staring at the ceiling while you’re over there with a knife.” I push against the bed, but the action is too quick. Pain slices my side, and I suck in a breath as the room tilts and spins, unconsciousness threatening to pull me under.
The wooden floor creaks beneath his weight as he swiftly approaches. His strong hand catches my shoulder and props me up as he arranges crunchy, hay-filled pillows behind my back. Without a word, he gently settles me against the pillows and returns to his task.
My bra strap slips down over my shoulder, and I realize I’m only dressed in my underwear. I grimace and tighten the blanket over my chest. “Why are you helping me? Why did you save me in the first place?”
Kane doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns to the hearth, his back to me as he stokes the fire and settles a cast-iron pot over the flames.
Fueled by his silence, my mind races.
He knows about portals, knows I’m from another world. He has to know there’s no one around here to miss me or come looking. Which means…
My jaw slackens, and my heart gallops. Kane’s taken me back to his cabin as his bride. He’s going to keep me here, barefoot and pregnant, making onion stew and following his every command. I’ll have a string of dark-eyed children named Jed or Rufus or Buck, be his bed wench, and watch him make fires and hunt.
That doesn’t actually sound so bad, Hannah.
Another indictment of my shitty life.
“I’m not good at cooking,” I say, breaking the silence.
He raises a brow, his expression unreadable as he brushes his hands off on his pants. “Noted.” He collects an onion and uses the bottom of his linen shirt to wipe away the dirt before removing the dagger from the sheath on his hip.
“And I’m terrible in bed.”
Kane pauses, the knife hovering over the fresh onion, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the handle.
