Page 130 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“I'm not,” I say, looking down at my bird.

“I wouldn’t hate it if you were,” she says, the tips of her ears turning pink.

I press my lips together, forcing my gaze from her face. It lands on her chain, and my stomach twists.

“I haven't found a way to escape, if that’s what you’re checking on,” she teases, and I grunt, because at this point, I almost wish she would. If she disappeared, I wouldnae be able to kill her. I could run to my family, cut their dedication dàn and hide, protect them until Ban-dia a’ Bhàis came for me. Would that save them from death by the Cutter’s hand? If I could only be certain, I would do it in a heartbeat. Ban-dia a’ Bhàis can have my soul. At this point, I dinnae think I care.

She stares at the bird in my hand, tilting her head.

“If I’m a lark… what kind of bird would you be? A robin?" she asks.

“I'm not a bird,” I say, and Bea leans back, assessing me.

“What are you then?” she asks. I take another scrape of wood.

“I'm a wolf,” I say, and she laughs. Actually laughs at me. “I wouldn’t give yourself too much credit, oh, terrifying wolf. You’ve yet to hurt me.”

I freeze. “But I will.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, fidgeting with her hem. “I think you're all talk. You want me, yet you're on the other side of the fire. You're going to kill me, but you’ve done nothing to try to end my life. In fact, as you pointed out, you’ve saved it.”

“Not technically,” I grumble, and she laughs again.

“You act as if it's simple,” I say, eyes trained on my carving even though all my attention is on her.

“Isn’t it?” she asks, but I ignore her. I dinnae have an answer for that. Not when I know I havenae been trying to learn how to kill her as I should be.

She sighs at my non-answer. “I act as if it’s human,” she continues, “to want things you should not want. To be trapped between hard decisions. It doesn't make you a bad person.”

Once again, I dinnae answer her.

“You're a good man,” she says.

“I'm not,” I snap, ripping the wing off the bird beneath my blade. I grit my teeth, throwing it into the fire, and sparks flick into the sky.

She grabs another piece of wood, tossing it to me. “You are. You cannot convince me otherwise,” she says, and I nearly growl at her attempts to show me I’m not despicable for my feelings.

“You’ve helped me more times than I can count. Even when you hated me.”

And suddenly, I understand why her sorrow has faded.

She’s convinced herself she can make me see the grey.

But there is no grey here.

“You should be afraid of me,” I say, quieter now, more warning than threat. Or maybe it’s a plea, because I need her to fear me, unsure I can trust what I’ll do if she keeps speaking of my wants.

Her breaths go shallow, but she shakes her head. “Well, I’m not.”

My heart stutters, and I go still, my hand hovering over the wood. How can she not be, when I will be her undoing? When I will hurt her.

I drop the wood, stalking over to her. I grab her arm, moving her hand toward my groin, slowly enough that she could easily pull away if she wanted to.

She doesnae.

Her fingers touch me over my kilt, her lips parting in a soft O.

It is nearly my unraveling, that parting of her lips. I am hard as stone beneath her hand, pulsing with desire, but there isn’t an ounce of fear in her eyes. There’s only hunger.