Page 139 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

I nod, but I’m still not able to meet his eyes. The shame of how I hurt him is thick and hot in my throat, but I force it away for the sake of whoever is about to die, refusing to waste time. “Yes. Are there any women inside? I only saw men.”

His brows draw together. “Aye. There’s one upstairs. Anna.”

I start toward the doors, but he stops me. “You cannae let them see you,” he says, his voice somehow sharp and soft at the same time. “They willnae just hurt you. They’ll tell Cailleach, and she’ll go after my family. Go back to the river. I’ll take care of it.”

His family.

The words hit like a blow to the chest, guilt nearly dragging me under. It’s not only Marsaili’s life I ended, but possibly his siblings, if the Cutter thinks I’ve escaped.

He reaches out, his hand hovering so close to my jaw, there's a phantom sensation of his touch. Even without looking at him, I feel his eyes gliding over my face, licking along my skin like flames. “Bea, please look at me,” he says, a heavy desperation in his voice, but I can’t.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look at him again, now that I know what I did. How deeply I hurt him.

He takes a small step forward, the buzz between his skin and mine growing stronger.

“Look at me,” he demands, firmer this time, and when I don’t, he curses under his breath. He shakes his head, closing the space between his hand and my face. I try to pull away, but I’m too late. He cups my cheek, and the shock of his touch is instant. Energy crackles beneath his fingers, sending heat through my chest, my belly.

I lean into his caress, unable to stop myself, my body begging me to get closer, even though I know I shouldn’t. That I don’t deserve it.

“You took down the boundary,” I whisper, tears burning my throat. I don’t know where the words come from. There are so many other things I should be saying, but I’d noticed it as soon as I’d left Brennen’s tent, desperate to escape the reality of what I’d done to him. Who I’d taken from him. The sight had been salt pressed into a wound, an act of kindness I hadn’t deserved, searing and sharp.

”Aye. I did. I should have done it sooner.” He tilts my head back to meet his eyes. “I’m glad you’re speaking to me again,” he says gently. The sincerity in his voice nearly brings me to my knees, and the knife in my chest twists.

How is he glad about anything? How does he not hate me? His voice is soft when he speaks again. Earnest. “I’m so sorry, Bea. For shouting at you. For telling you that way. I was—” He takes a deep breath. “It was wrong of me, and I’ll regret it until the day I die. Please accept my apology. Please don’t pull away again,” he says, almost begging. There’s whiskey on his breath, but his eyes are alert. Searching.

I don’t have the strength to tell him I think I already have given up. Not in saving the women, but saving myself.

He leans forward, and I gasp as he trails a thumb across the freckles on my cheek. He opens his mouth to say something else, but in a flash, I am pulled back to the river.

The burn in my cheek from Brennen’s touch lingers, a phantom hand on my skin. A touch I don’t deserve. A touch— I jump to my feet, examining my body for dàn. I search my arms and legs, my torso, and there it is. A collection of wavy black lines staining my ribs.

It’s sore to the touch, and I wonder how I missed it being branded on my skin. Was the burn of his touch so intense I’d missed the pain of his magic transferring to me altogether?

The wind shifts, carrying a raven's caw through the glen, and I turn upstream, holding my breath, but as I wait to see if he found Anna, my mind spins.

Brennen had chosen to touch me.

Knowing I would take his magic, he’d placed his hand directly on my skin and hadn’t cared about the consequences.

I don’t know how to process it. How to merge the guilt and shame I’m feeling with the hope and joy that single caress caused. But beneath it all, worry gnaws at my stomach. In those precious moments he had touched me, he’d wasted time. What if he hadn’t made it to Anna?

Please, let Brennen have found her, I silently beg.

The river flows on, and hope flickers in my chest, but then I see it. Dark clothing, swirling in the muddy stream.

“No,” I whisper, rushing to grab the clothes, sorrow piercing my heart. It had been one thing, washing these clothes before I knew how to save them. But washing them now because I failed to get to her in time? I almost crumble beneath the weight of it. I am failing. Brennen. Anna.

I spread the garments out in the water, wanting to be able to describe the clothes to Brennen, but it takes significant effort. They’re heavier than I expected. Thicker.

My breath catches as the rough tweed scratches my fingers, and I pull the bundle apart.

Shock and confusion ricochet through my chest, building by the second as my mind searches for answers. The river tries to pull them from me, as if it doesn’t want me to get a good look, but I do not allow it. I hold on, just long enough to see the clothing clearly.

Trousers and a brown tunic, and there isn’t a speck of blood.

Fighting against the magic of my curse, I search the pockets, but there’s nothing inside to hint at who they belonged to. I close my eyes as the river rips the clothing away from me, trying to remember what the tavern’s patrons had been wearing, but it had all happened so fast. I’d seen Brennen and ceased to focus on anything else.

Nausea rises in my stomach, acrid and hot.