Page 69

I had my hand on that. I should know what I’m looking at, and I do not remember it being that big.

I was kind of busy.

He bends for his trousers, and there’s the thighs. Of course there’s glorious fucking thighs. Does he have anything on him that isn’t sculpted?

I pick the knife and my arrow back up so my hands have something to do. There’s nothing left to shave.

He comes round the hearth and reaches for the bowl, keeping his claws clear of the rim.

“You made this.”

“You’ve ruled out the other residents?”

He takes a mouthful while I turn the shaft against the stone. It wobbles all the way around. Hmph. I put it with the firewood. “I’m bad at this.”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe it’s the wood. The wood just refuses to be an arrow.”

“No.” He eats another spoonful, with both ears tipped forward now.

“You could’ve pretended to think about it.”

When he’s finished, he picks through the short lengths I’ve gathered beside the hearth. He puts one across my knees and keeps the rest in his hand. One. Out of the whole pile.

“Use this. We’ll find more outside.”

I look up. “With the bow?”

“Unless you mean to throw it.”

I’ve got my foot wraps half on before he’s finished standing. The little knife goes into its case and under my belt.

By the time we get down to the river, the sun’s clear of the ridge. Rauk takes me a little beyond yesterday’s fishing bend, to a fallen trunk above the water. There’s a patch of pale rotten wood on its side, about as wide as my hand. Generous.

I miss it twice.

Don’t say it. Don’t you dare.

Rauk’s ears are up when I look back. “The tree’s bigger than the fish.”

I pull the next arrow and keep my eyes on the trunk. “Then stop distracting me.”

He settles on the bank with his forearms on his thighs. The bow’s low enough that my shoulder only pulls a little, and I aim at the pale patch and draw.

The arrow sticks in the bark under it.

“Closer.”

I huff. “I can see that.”

He goes to fetch it while I rest my arm. It’s in deep enough that he has to twist the shaft to get it out, so at least I’m hitting hard.

When he brings it back, he stops beside me.

“Your sleeve.”

The left cuff’s unrolled again. I try to push it up without putting the bow down, and he catches the loose cloth between his blunt fingers. One fold clears the string. He leaves his hand there while I make the second, and I take my time about it.