Page 115 of The Discount Damsel

She’d told the apprentice to trust her—to stay out of his hair, mind her own business, and all the rest—but she hadn’t expected it to manifest like this. A week ago, it wouldn’t have bothered her. In fact, she would’ve celebrated the absence of the brooding apprentice. But a week ago, she hadn’t threaded her fingers through his hair, either.

After that disaster with the lye detergent, she hadn’t given up on the laundry. Or Bradley. Something had changed that afternoon when they’d sat on the bed and he’d tended to her wounds. A door, or maybe a keyhole, had opened between them, and with it, fledgling amicability. Once Millie had had a taste of it, she craved more, even if they technically still at war with each other. The man had yet to formally apologize to her, but she was willing to forgive him if it meant more of this amicability.

The next evening, after supper in the hours she preferred to spend lounging or gossiping with Dirk about the latest creative way Sir Beauregard had managed to lose his shirt in front of her or Prince Henri’s newest proposal, she had surprised Bradley in the workroom by demanding the washboard, the appropriate soap, and a lesson.

Startled, Bradley dropped a folded piece of parchment into a cherrywood box, slammed the lid shut, and shoved it into the center drawer of the large desk. In his haste, he knocked the quill from the inkwell and scrambled to catch it before it scrawled unintelligible lines across his notes. “Y-you do?”

“I told you, I’m not selfish. And I want a lesson on how to make those scones,” she added, hands on her hips with mock superiority. “You don’t make nearly enough in the morning.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes, but the behavior lacked its usual derisiveness. “Yes I do, Tula.”

That nickname, too, lacked its typical heat. From her books, she knew that’s what friends did—they teased and often deprecated each other, but it was all in good fun. A swell of excitement flooded through her, but Millie maintained her composure. It wouldn’t do to scare him off if she appeared overeager.

Bradley sprinkled sawdust over his notes to blot up the extra ink and stuck a bookmark between the pages of the spell directory. He stalked past her, the wake of his passage bathing her with warm air spiced with him and teasing the hair that always seemed to escape from her bun. She felt pulled to follow, drawn into his gravity. Or was that simply the pull of his power trapped inside?

Olabeus had told her that the strongest sorcerers had a magnetic quality, a molecular attraction that enabled them to ply the world around them without the need of High Aetherial as a conduit. They didn’t need staffs to amplify their power, either, though they often wielded one as a guise to keep their true power secret. Archmasters.

“Well,” Bradley said, hand propped on the trapdoor, “come on then.”

The apprentice wouldn’t let her use the tub again, but he brought the designated washtub and its accompanying stool into the suite’s bathroom because it was easier done than lugging Millie’s clothes elsewhere. “I wouldn’t wear any of your finery when doing this,” he warned. “Or anything that might cause you to slip.”

Millie hiked up the hem of her skirt, tucking it into her belt.

“The Kraken take me,” he muttered, jerking his gaze away from her bare ankles.

“Only after you look at this,” she said. “You were wrong about the ointment.”

“I what?” He stole a quick glance, gasped, and dropped to his knees to inspect her legs. His touch was gentle, awe-struck, as he rotated first her right leg back and forth, then her left.

“Steady on,” she cried with a laugh, grabbing hold of his shoulder when he jerked her leg up to inspect the sole of her foot. “Careful, Mr. Donmarin!”

He smoothed a hand over the unmarked flesh as if he had to convince himself through touch what he saw was indeed the truth. She knew it was an innocent inspection, so why was her heart fluttering?

She’d thought the tenderness of yesterday was just a fluke—the practiced touch of a man who’d treated wounds before. Perhaps a testament to the past he talked very little about. Maybe so, but it contrasted sharply against the man she knew him to be. Or thought he was. Bradley Donmarin was a prickly grump, his softness reserved for a single baby luck dragon. And yet . . .

“But it’s impossible.” His whisper buffeted warmly against her skin. “It’s only been a day. That ointment has never worked that fast ever.”

“I must be incredibly special,” she teased. Anything to dispel the nervous energy of the thousand frolicsome greyhounds racing through her veins.

“I mean,” he said, looking up, “you don’t have any merfolk ancestry, do you?”

Millie’s heart stopped at the wonder shining in his blue eyes. This was the truth of him—wide-eyed at the marvels of the world—and a truth he kept hidden away. It was at once profoundly arousing in its excitement and heart-breaking that he should imprison it.

The moment stretched and shifted as sensation expanded beyond the scope of his beautiful eyes. He knelt in front of her, her foot balanced on the flat of his thigh, his hand cupping her calf, her fingers threaded in his hair. When her hand had shifted from his shoulder to twine in the black curls that hugged his neck, she didn’t know, but they were just as silky as she’d imagined.

All thoughts of fledgling amicability vanished.

Friends wouldn’t wonder what it would be like for her fingers to tighten, to guide his mouth to hers. To taste the wonderment on his lips, feel the passion she saw simmering under his skin in the grip of his hands as they held her close.

What an adventure that would be.

Her pulse skipped along her veins as the excitement fled his eyes, replaced by something stronger, wilder. It reminded her of the way Sir Beauregard smoldered at her, but the knight’s gaze was all primal lust. Millie had never seen such an expression in a man’s eyes before as she now saw in Bradley’s, but age-old instinct recognized it immediately. Bone-deep desire. For her. All of her.

For Millie.

The moment shattered when the apprentice abruptly stood. Caught off-balance, Millie yelped as she stumbled backwards. One foot went into the washtub and promptly slipped on the bar of soap. She screeched as all four limbs flailed, but she didn’t fall.

Strong hands caught her, yanked, and homespun worn smooth from many washings pressed against her cheek. She sucked in a breath, ensured she was on steady ground, and lifted her face from where it smooshed against Bradley’s chest. His hand hovered beside her cheek like a hummingbird unsure if it should land.