Page 75 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“Chivalry will not make up for your mockery,” I stated, staring down at him.

“Wasn’t trying redeem myself,” he said, smirking up at me.

The hem of his cloak fluttered around my ankles, brushing his arm as he reached to retrieve a sock not far from my bare feet.

“Where are your boots?” he asked.

I curled my toes on the carpet of fallen leaves. “I must’ve left them on the riverbank.”

Faren rose, forcing me to crane my neck to look at his face. “I’ll go get them.”

“I can—”

A small smile formed on his lips, and he handed me my fallen clothes. “Warm your feet.”

While Faren traipsed off to find my boots, I thew a fresh log on the fire and seated myself close to its flames. I laid mydamp socks and undergarments nearby, warming those, too. Gradually, I felt the feeling return to my toes—hot, tingling, aching, then finally easing. The scratchy fabric of Faren’s cloak scraped at my shoulders, clavicles, breasts, but I couldn’t bring myself to dress. Warm and wrapped up in the scent of him, I wasn’t ready to waft cold air into my cocoon just yet.

When Faren returned, he dropped my boots by the fire and sat on the log beside me, leaving a foot of distance between us. He waited all of thirty seconds before wheeling on me. “Swans, of all things? I insist you explain.”

“And invite more ridicule? I think not,” I said primly.

Faren scooted closer—close enough for me to spot the golden flecks in his irises, the sun-streaks in his hair, the stubble on his cheeks. Without his cloak, the round caps of his shoulder muscles and the broad expanse of his chest were stark underneath his shirt. He really was handsome. Devastatingly so.

“Tell me,” he said. “I have to know.”

“This, you have to know?” I asked. “After everything that transpired in Brine, you want to ask me about my phobia of swans?”

His forehead pinched. “I thought we weren’t talking about Brine.”

“Weren’t we?”

“Didn’t seem like it.”

We both stared into the fire, where the flames were catching on the new log, snapping and throwing sparks.

“If you won’t tell me about the swans,” he said, his voice iron, “then tell me who the fuck put those bruises on you.”

I stiffened. I didn’t want to tell him that, on the day I received my summons for our mission, Castor and Brom had come while I slept, pinned me down, and dragged me to an audience with Heris. I didn’t want to tell him that I hadn’t fought back, that—when I wasn’t killing abominations and mouthing off—I wassickeningly obedient. That, if I wanted my freedom and to keep my family safe, I had no choice but to comply. To know my place. To take the hit.

“What bruises?” I asked.

The look on his face was dark, dangerous, and unrelenting. “On your ribs.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a Morta?”

“Were you facing one without your armor?” He snorted dismissively. “I’ve seen you fight monsters. That was not the mark of a Morta.”

I tugged the cloak a little tighter around myself. “What does it matter?”

His gaze collided with mine, heavy and heated. “It matters to me.”

My skin prickled. I thought of that moment in the thicket, his hand on my jaw, the careful press of his fingertips drawing a tingling sensation up my spine. He’d stared at my mouth with a look of startling greed, and my magic had ached with anticipation, both completely overwhelmed and desperately eager for what might come next. I should’ve broken contact. I should’vestabbedhim. It was one thing to trust him—but towanthim? That wasn’t just foolish, it was impossible.

It matters to me. Did he realize the danger in his statement? The senseless temptation it roused in me?

I looked away, painfully aware of what little clothing I wore. “I got bit by a swan as a child,” I said. “I had a blood blister on my arm for a month.”

His jaw ticked, as if he were weighing whether or not to accept my conversational diversion. Finally, he asked, “What did you do to it?”