Page 68 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Nestled on that corner bench, Faren and Mariana had talked late into the night. Three rounds had sent him to bed loose-limbed and fuzzy headed. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t, what with the echoes of their conversation still ringing in his head—the thrill of her unexpected honesty—and the sensation of her hand on his leg lingering in the recesses of his magic. As he’d stared at the ceiling in the dark, bargaining with himself for just an hour of rest, all he could do was picture her.

The dazzling depth of her eyes, watching him.

The wry tilt of her head throwing shadows across the feline angles of her face.

The wrinkle in her forehead when she debated whether or not to speak honestly or deflect his prying questions with a joke.

The way the scar on her lip stretched when she smirked at him.

She’d left him with an ache that was more than just captivation or lust. It had felt worryingly,catastrophicallylike real desire. A heat in his veins that even the present chill couldn’t fully extinguish.

Mariana, on the other hand, was currently as brisk as the weather. Did she regret opening up to him? Did their closeness in the Lark seem as disastrous to her as it had to Faren? He tried to ignore it, to focus on their grim task, but as they skirted the old remains of a charred barn on the edge of town, he couldn’t help but ruminate on the meaning of her chilliness.

“Did you sleep?” Faren asked, trying to break through the crust of ice that had formed between them overnight.

Mariana lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “A little,” she replied. “You?”

“A little.” The raspiness of his voice belied the lie.

Frozen grass crunched under their boots. It felt strange to leave their horses in the stable, but Mariana had assured him that tracking a Morta was best done on foot.

“The beds were nice though,” Faren commented.

“Sure.”

“You aren’t still drunk, are you?”

Mariana’s brow arched. “What? No. I wasn’t drunk.”

“Tipsy, then?”

“Faren.”

“Because if you were inebriated—in any sense of the word—it would be irresponsible to continue,” he reasoned. “I’d have no choice but to insist we abandon our abomination hunt and return to the warm inn with the cozy beds to sleep it off.”

Catching on, her mouth quirked up. “You Mighty Knights are all the same—soft.”

He opened his mouth, about to make a crude joke.

“—and don’t tell me you’re hard when it counts. It’s too early for cock jokes.”

He raised his palms with mock innocence. “You’re the one who brought up my cock.”

Her mouth dropped open, her gaze fleeing to the old barn, the night sky,anywherebut him.

Faren grinned so hard it hurt. “You’re one to talk,” he teased. “Do you not recall the nooks and crannies conversation in Yar? Don’t get shy on me, now, Maiden Morta Killer.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let’s just focus on our task, shall we?”

“Whatever you’d like,” he purred.

Their silence was more amiable after that, filled with the steady rhythm of their breathing. Soon, they reached the pinnacle of the hill west of Brine. The moon was waning, spilling cool light onto the frost-crusted landscape, making everything glitter. Coppiced hazel trees dotted the sloped field ahead, with the pines of the Western Wood forming a jagged wall in the distance. Faren suspected the copses would provide adequate cover as they approached the Morta’s hideout.

Ifthe monster was even nearby. He couldn’t for the life of him spot any trace of it. “Do you have a sense of where it’s gone?” Faren whispered.

Mariana rested her palm on the pommel of her sword—Windthorn, he thought with satisfaction. “That way,” she said, pointing.

Faren peered out across the pastureland, seeing no clues. “How can you tell?”