Page 127 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I pick at the hem of my dress, trying to push the image of Brennen's appalled face from my mind.

There's a thud behind me, and I jump, turning around. An already gutted and cleaned boar speared onto a thick stick lies on the ground at Brennen's feet, and without a word, he shoves two Y-shaped branches into the ground on either side of the fire. He picks up the hog, grunting as he fights to line the spear into the grooves. He doesn’t look at me, his movements fast and focused. His hair is wild, his face tight, and I search it for emotions.

He’d sounded so sad when he walked away. So conflicted, but now he looks like he’s running on something primal. Like something is clawing it’s way out of the depths of his soul to escape his tight lid of control.

“What's this for?” I ask, my mouth watering at just the thought of roasted hog. “Did you catch it for the foxes?”

“No,” he says gruffly, wiping his sweaty brow with his forearm. “I caught it for you.” He picks up his canteen, his throat bobbing as he drinks deeply.

I suck in a breath. “For me?” He’s been here for months and has never once shared his kills with me. So why now?

Brennen’s jaw is set in a hard line, the muscle in his cheek jumping. He looks angry, but I'm not sure what I could've done to cause it, or why it would make him want to feed me. He rotates the hog on the spit.

“I knew you'd been starved, but I didnae ken you were starving now. You didn't tell me. I thought you had enough with your fish and your berries. You turned down food once, and you never asked for any of my rations. Hardly even looked at them. I thought maybe you didnae need to eat.”

Part of me wants to laugh at him. To tell him that, of course, I’m hungry. Always. But the heat in his eyes stops me. “Well, technically, I don’t. But you do, and your rations seem to be only enough for yourself.”

He tosses several logs on the fire, shaking his head as if my answer only fuels his anger.

I stutter, trying to think of a response. He’d brought me several things I needed, so why hadn’t I told him? “I didn’t think you would have given it to me if I asked,” I say, testing the waters.

“Aye, I would have, and I think you ken it!” he shouts, throwing his arms out as he finally turns, pinning me with a stare. The words echo through the glen, and a flock of curlews flies away in fear. Brennen’s chest heaves, and there's a fire in his eyes that frightens me.

“You’re right,” I say, keeping my voice strong, even though guilt scrapes down my spine. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was hungry,” I say softly. “I’ve asked other men who visit for scraps before, but they never oblige me.”

“Well, I'm no other men.” He stiffens. “And what do you mean, visited you?” His fingers curl into white-knuckled fists.

This question, I do not answer.

He already knows what I mean.

“No,” he shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No.”

The word is a stab to the chest, and I bring a hand up to my sternum to rub away the pain, the stinging so much worse than the cold wind against my cheeks.

“I was beautiful, once, you know. Before the bloodstains. Men would come here occasionally, looking for a thrill. Could they bed the Washwoman?”

“Stop,” he says.

“Why? Most men aren’t as honorable as you. I didn’t let them, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or are you confused about how anyone could possibly want me? Is that why you were so disgusted when you saw my body?”

“Disgusted?” he says, his voice lowering dangerously, pulling the hair on my arms to attention.

I do not look away. I know what I saw, and I will not back down. “Aye. I saw your face when I came out of the water.” I put my hands on my hips. “You were standing there for far longer than just the moment the foxes appeared.”

“You think I’m disgusted by you?” he growls, his voice bringing gooseflesh to my arms. “That I dinnae think anyone could want you?” He stalks forward, grabbing my wrist over my sleeve.

He leans down, his fingers squeezing my arm, so hard it’s almost painful, and when he speaks again, it’s nothing more than a low rumble. “It’s not you I’m disgusted with. I'm disgusted with myself.” He lets go, beginning to pace. “Because I saw you, and I wanted you.” He shoves a finger into his own chest. “Because it’s not the first time I’ve wanted to wrap your curls around my hand. To examine that dàn between your breasts with my tongue, and taste that beautiful mouth you never stop talking with. Because you are nothing like the woman I thought I would find here. You're smart and sharp-witted. As beautiful as you are strong, and somehow, even after all you’ve been through, you’re bloody standing.”

He stops abruptly, rubbing his forehead, then turns and meets my eyes. Eyes replete with what I can only describe as utter devastation.

“You’ve become the searing heat of flames against my skin, growing stronger each day, devouring all the oxygen in your wake, consuming everything you touch. Every fiber of my being, until my mind can hold nothing but you. I can hardly breathe in your presence for my wanting you. That is why you saw disgust on my face. Because I was sent here to kill you. Because I have to kill you. And instead, I want you more than even the breath I cannae find.”

My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out everything but Brennen. His anger and frustration. I’m frozen, as if I’ve forgotten how to move completely.

He wants me.

Me.