Page 88 of A Thief Among Fae

“Here.” I grab his hand and guide it to the side of my head, where I hit the cobblestones.

I feel his touch ghost around the swelling lump beneath my hair. He’s careful not to touch it.

“I shouldn’t have believed you when you said you were fine. Sometimes I forget you can lie.” He swears in a different tongue, and then his rough hands slide against my cheeks, steadying my head.

“What are you doing?” I try to pull away, but he doesn’t let me. This close, I see the floating mage light overhead shining blue in each strand of his soft, dark curls.

“I’m checking you for a concussion. How many days ago did we meet at the docks?” he asks.

“About two weeks ago. I’m not concussed.”

“Then what about your back?”

I wince. “I don’t know.” Then more defensively, I add, “How would I know how cut up my own back is?”

“Cut up?” His eyes narrow. “I can go get Maeve if you don’t want to show me⁠—”

“But she’s probably gone back to bed already.”

“Then Auri.”

“Absolutely not.” I undo the laces of my gambeson and toss it across the room, just to emphasize my refusal. Then I shrug out of my tunic, revealing the linen bustier Nog had sewn as part of my new undergarments. My clothes are stained with my blood.

Desmond’s jaw clenches as his gaze quickly roams my bare shoulders, the swell of my breasts above the seam of the bustier. Then it reels back to my face. “Sit. On the bed.”

“Alright, but you could’ve said please.” Slowly, I sit and turn my back toward him.

“Fuck,” he seethes. It must be worse than I thought. Then his voice darkens. “Who did this to you?”

“Their housecarl. Don’t blame her. She was just doing her job.”

He’s silent for several seconds, then says, “I’ll be back.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

That was sudden. I look around his room again and recognize the book on top of the stack. It’s the one he read in the tavern. I slide off the bed, wincing, and flip through it.

There has to be a reason he has all these books. Is he doing research on Olin’s tomb? Desmond’s cursive covers the margins around an inked sketch of a sword. I skim them, frowning as I read, Not enough power. Around a sketch of a music box, he wrote Wrong kind of enchantment.

The back of my neck prickles with anticipation. Somewhere in this book must be what he’s looking for in Olin’s tomb. Why won’t he tell me what it is?

Then I open another book, and my brows rise in shock. The title on the first page is written in Desmond’s handwriting.

Tales from the Hollowlands

a compilation of narrations

Flipping through it, I skim what appear to be fae stories—faery tales, as humans call them.

Footsteps echo down the hall. I move the books back and sit on the bed just before the door swings open and shuts.

“You moved,” Desmond grits out. “Are you trying to make your injury worse?”

“I was bored,” I lie. I’d shrug to make it more convincing if it wouldn’t hurt so damn much.

He sits behind me and sets medical supplies onto the bed. Then he holds out a cup of watery brown liquid. “Drink this. It’s a pain-relieving tonic Maeve makes, willow-bark-based.”

“Sounds delicious.” It definitely won’t be. I wince as I gulp down the bitter tonic.

Then he hands me his flask. “And this will help heal you.”