Page 45 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

The waterfall quickly came into view. Dark rock lined with moss on all sides framed the rush of white cascading down the ravine. There was a tiny cave at the base with a convenient outcrop of stone we could stand upon while not getting completely soaked. It was the perfect spot for washing clothes without too much effort.

Bits of ice clung to the sides of the pool. The water didn’t surge like it would in spring as the ice melted, but the flow still showed the last of the storm that had brought Rowan to my front door.

Completely entranced by the spectacle, he never stopped moving his eyes, absorbing everything as we approached. Maybe I was wrong about him being from one of the Fae families in the mountainous areas of Larethia.

As expected, I had to teach him how to wash clothes. “Sorry, no servants in Selmont.”

He grinned. Then cheated by using magic to do the scrubbing on both of our sets of clothes. “I should’ve brought another dress to clean!”

With a small lift of his chin and a smoldering glance down at me, he suggested, “I could wash the clothes you’re wearing.”

I hadn’t changed from last night, so I was still wearing an old pair of trousers and a shirt that barely fit underneath my cloak. “Then I’d have to hike home in damp clothes because there’s no way they’ll dry in time.”

That grin morphed into a smirk. “Or wear just the cloak.”

Parts of me could not take this teasing, and not just my flaming cheeks. Something had changed between us this morning—something that could become addictive if I got much more of it. “Okay, shower time!”

“Ladies first,” he said, glancing down at boot prints that were too big to be my own, protective Nocthel instincts showing. “I’ll keep a lookout.”

I hurried through my shower because fighting the frigid torrent’s chill ate away at my magic. While I got clean, Rowan steadfastly kept his eyes trained on the paths leading to and from the waterfall.

A gentleman too. Too much to like to lose him so soon.

When it was his turn, I peeked at him only once on my way up the trail toward the wardstone… All right, twice, because right then, he wasn’t my patient. He was just a man I was enjoying the afternoon with. The first was by accident. I wasn’t proud of it, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t already seen it all before. The powerful lines of his back, the shimmer of water on his skin—at least I could keep those memories long after he was gone.

The stone near the waterfall was also the one closest to the road leading past Selmont. My wet hair made the forest feel colder than before as I walked. The wardstone itself looked like nothing more than a stray boulder with a bit of etching on it, half-buried in moss and roots to the mundane eye. But to me, the surrounding air seemed to vibrate with the buzz of a bee swarm.

It pulsed softly when my fingertips touched it. I closed my eyes, letting the finest thread of magic seep from my fingertips. Its pull was consistently strong, overly so, like it was starving.

Not good. I’d be a husk of a woman before this week was out with healing Rowan and supplementing the wards.

An ugly thought sprang to mind. To keep the wards up, I’d have to skip healing him, meaning he might stay a while longer.

So selfish. And yet, that might have to be the case regardless of my desire to keep him around. I pulled back, not ready to commit to shoring them up just yet.

I’d been so absorbed in testing the ward and daydreaming inappropriately about my patient that I hadn’t heard the hooves crunching on the leaves behind me until they were ten feet away.

Not Rowan.

I knew that immediately, instinctively.

I tensed, slowly lifting my hands from the stone, willing my pulse to slow. Travelers sometimes passed by on the road, but none came this far down this side path.

“’Scuse us, miss.” A deep voice. Unfamiliar.

I whirled around. Two men on horses, too close to a woman alone in the middle of nowhere. That alone told me everything. But the way they carried themselves, the mismatched pieces of leather and mail, and the swords at their belts screamed one identity: Mercenary. One man was broad and scarred, with black hair and a beard down to his chest. The other was well-built with a shaved head.

Both looked like they’d been riding hard. Their hands rested too close to their weapons to be anything but a message.

I pulled my cloak tighter around myself. “Can I help you?”

The hairy one attempted a gap-toothed smile. It didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. “We’re looking for a man who was last seen around these parts.”

“A man?” My voice didn’t squeak, which was a minor miracle.

“Aye,” the bald one said. “Tall fellow. Brown hair. Expensive armor. Very fine steed. Thought he came this way after the storm.”

Every muscle in my body seized. Nothing about this felt right. Think, Lunette. Lie.