Page 122 of A Thief Among Fae

“Me too.”

We face each other. Droplets drip from his hair, the curls weighed into subtle waves by the water. His clothes are glued to his body, hiding nothing.

What I notice most is how the points of his ears stick out, and it finally strikes me that the Hollowlands’ High Prince just took a bath with me.

His gaze darts down my figure. He swallows. I notice that my damp clothes aren’t leaving much to the imagination either, and suddenly feel hot despite the chilly air. I shift, crossing my arms over my chest. My mouth dries, and I feel even more exposed than when he saw me in the sheet. What is he thinking? Why are his eyes so dark when he looks away?

“So, training?” I ask, and it comes out with a clear note of unease.

“There is something I need to take care of first,” Desmond says. “Grab something to eat at the inn, then meet me at the boulder in the field.”

Then he leaves the bathhouse, his shoulders tense and hand flexing at his side. For a split second, I feel an unbidden yearning to have our hands against each other’s bodies, exploring and pleasuring.

I swallow, not knowing if the feeling was his or mine.

Desmond doesn’t look back even once.

Chapter 34

Desmond doesn’t join us at the inn for lunch. Maybe he’s avoiding me after what happened at the bathhouse.

I’m so distracted that I eat the cabbage and goat stew without complaint. The goat is chewy, and the cabbage tastes a few days beyond its prime. The meal wouldn’t have bothered me at home, but after weeks of being spoiled by Nog’s cooking, my taste buds crave something richer.

Despite that, I can’t stop recalling the way Desmond’s clothes stuck to his body. The girth of his thighs, the bulging thickness of his upper arms. Such toned muscles don’t belong on a high fae’s willowy body. Being half-human must be why his shoulders are so broad and strong.

Min notices that I’m too preoccupied to finish my stale slice of bread. I hand it to Finnian, who bemoans that he’s hungry for a second bowl of the wretched stew. Then I excuse myself from them.

I need to start training. Anything to get my mind off that bath.

Heading outside, I spy a boulder in the distance, abnormally smooth. The ground is barren around it as though the whispering field grass fears it.

I fetch the fold-up bridge from the carriage. Then I levitate it behind me as I walk to the boulder. Once I reach it, I prepare for training by stretching as a soft mist curls around my ankles. It’s a little unfair that everyone else gets to rest today, but I’m thankful for this distraction.

What else would I do with my time, anyway? Wallow in my thoughts? I don’t hand-sew like Finnian, hunt field mice like Min, and I don’t read like Desmond. Besides, everyone is depending on me to get them across the chasm. I need to train.

Desmond approaches as I sit atop the boards to stretch my legs. “I didn’t think you’d join me,” I call out.

The mist swirls around him like a prince from a faerytale. He’s dressed in all black except for two peridot pendant earrings that bring out the green in his hazel eyes. His tunic’s low neckline reveals a sharp collarbone and the firm chest that I ran my hands over not so long ago. I draw in a tight breath.

“And leave you without your employer?” he asks, but the humor in his gaze is noticeably forced. That comment must’ve bothered him more than I thought.

“My friend,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “I was flustered earlier.”

For once, I’d give anything to know how he feels through our bond, but it’s irritatingly silent. “I’m glad to see you have enough energy to train,” Desmond finally says.

I shrug, then grasp my feet. “I don’t want to die in Olin’s tomb any more than the rest of you.” The glorious stretch of my muscles after hours of travel draws a sigh out of me. The hot bath and the monk’s healing magic definitely helped, too.

When I look up, Desmond is watching me, his lips slightly parted and eyes darkening. He quickly averts his gaze, clearing his throat. “You’ve worked hard. We’ll succeed.”

I smile at the compliment.

He extends his hand to me, and my pulse stutters. I remember all the times I didn’t take it. After we sparred, the hilltop at sunset, when he saved my life from the fomorian assassins.

All those times, I rejected him. Out of shame. From a lack of trust. From the hurt that he doesn’t trust me. Yet he looks at me, not with expectation, but the faintest glow of hope underneath the cracks in his mask. It’s in his gentle smile that would shine if he’d lower his guard. It’s in the way he holds his breath as he waits. Most of all, it’s in his eyes, an uncharacteristic warmth that threatens to pull me in and bind me close.

If that wasn’t enough, there’s a thread of trepidation winding around me that I know is his own, an omen of disappointment if I dismiss him yet again.

I take his hand.