Gods, I was sweating.
I stared at the ceiling, keeping my gaze determinedly away from the armoire, but also, the expanse of his shoulders, the plains of his chest, or thethingin his breeches that he’d pressed against me in my dream. Perhaps the templum’s water was riddled with henbane, for what else could explain these delusions?
“This morn I need to—” He paused, helm rotating until his shielded eyes landed upon the bed, its sheets cast askew.
I blanched.
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.
But of course, my minder would be the only druid in all of Thromarra—the only person in all of Thromarra—blessed with a keener nose than a bloodhound. Heat trailed over my body in a rush of uncomfortable pricks. I fought, with considerable effort, to keep the flush from rising, but my neck and chest were already lost.
“Never mind.” His smile practically bled from under the mesh. “Change of plans. We will need another trip to the baths, it would seem. You appear to have gotten yourself in quite the state.” To my horror, he strode to the cot, flipped over the linens, and knotted his bare fingers into the fabric.
He wouldn’t, would he?
Helm intent on where I stood by the basin, he lifted my sheets to the chains at his face. The blush I’d somehow managed to cage escaped in an instant, blood rushing to my face in one almighty swell. He inhaled—deeply, slowly.
“Fuck,” he whispered, so faintly I may have been misheard him. My lips trembled and I righted them still. Would my knuckles break if I struck his helm?
He cleared his throat, then laughed. “Just what have you been doing here, Seamstress? Is there a man locked in that armoire I should know about? Or a sister?” Could mesh shift with the wiggle of a brow? Because I swear, in that instance, it did. “I can’t make any promises not to remove their head…” he continued, strolling over to its bulk, sheets trailing behind him. “You are my ward after all, you understand.” He opened its doors, sticking his great, clunky head inside. “It would damage my reputation to no end if the druids found out I’d let another slip into your rooms.”
He was going to make me say it, wasn’t he? As he closed the dresser’s doors, I readied for battle, straightening my back and lifting my chin.Weave a lie in the same breath as a truth.The druid really should have thought twice before teaching me such tricks.
“I had a dream.” My face was the picture of indifference, brow arched, smile slanted.
“A dream? Pray, what about? Or should I say,who?” He’d folded his arms, the linens still clasped in his hand.
Truths within lies. “Demetri,” I returned without a beat of hesitation.
His fists clenched before he relaxed them again.
And now, for the killing blow. “My linens are rather too big to pocket like a handkerchief, Druid. Did you want me to tear off a square since you seem so reluctant to let it go? Do you like the scent of my yearning? It must be such a novelty for you.”
He tossed it back onto the bed as if it were crawling with ants. My chin lifted higher. Now to distract. “Now, if you’re done using my sheets as a comforter, and before we leave, how are the laurels?”
I asked every morn, and every morn his answer was always the same—with only a few minor details ever seeming to change.
He sighed, crossing back to the door and readying to leave.
“I spoke to Freddor but six turns ago. They are much the same as they always are. The acolytes asked questions, and the laurels complied. Nothing has changed since yestereve.” His knee bounced, just slightly.
It didn’t matter how much I’d begged, coaxed, raged at Vetrius; he always told me the same.
“They won’t kill them,” he answered, to a question I had yet to give voice to. “…at least, not yet. They will have to endure; the same as you.”
How many penancings had Demetri endured whilst I dreamt of a naked druid and read Vetrius’ books, curled up in his office like a lapdog whilst he took drips and drabs of my blood? Had they sent Capriche to whip him? Was he alone? Was he scared? I glanced at the armoire, my stomach coaxing the lingering heat from my cheeks until I felt cold. Freezing, even.
His large hand unlatched the bolt. “No bath, actually. You can stay coated in your need for him. I ordain it as penance for having such blasphemous dreams.” He made quite the show of tutting before wrenching open the door, its hinges creaking in protest.
I knew my role by now: trail behind him, head down, hands clasped. That golden spot between loathing and submission; a show of hate but also a deference to his mighty will. It didn’t feel much like pretending.
Secured behind the arched door to his office, I unknitted my hands and shot him a scowl, though his armour-wrought back was turned to me. Reaching for one of the cubbies, Vetrius selected a book written in Thromarrian, not Dendrae, for me to peruse. Only druids and acolytes were deigned worthy enough to learn the markings of scripture, so my options were limited. This was our routine,our pretense.He’d hole me up in his office, give me something to read whilst he scribbled away—the same bureaucratic nonsense to attend to day in and day out—andthen, we’d rehearse what experiment I’d supposedly endured at his hands, lest any acolytes or druids came knocking. He’d take a thimble-full every so often, though what he did with it, I hadn’t a clue. That was the extent of his inquisition, other than to bore me to death.
“Are you going to use this time to educate yourself or simply stare at my hands?” he chastised whilst he scratched at something with a tawny feathered plume, not bothering to raise his helm.
I huffed and gazed down at his offering.
Thromarra’s Naval History
