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Pushing the door open, I squint into the almost complete darkness. Directly across from the door is a wall and to the right is the outline of the bed, but it appears empty. I step into the room to check the gaping maw of the window. She’s not there either and my stomach swoops. Shit.Has she escaped?But then I spot a darker heap behind the brazier. She’s curled up on the floor, dangerously close to the hot metal. I stomp forward, intending to yank her away from it, but she must sense me coming because she panics and desperately tries to scramble free of the blanket.
“Stop,” I order and she freezes, still prone on the floor, only having managed to get an elbow under herself.
She pushes her loose hair back as I glare down at her. “What in the name of the Mother are you doing? One wrong move and you’ll burn yourself, or a stray ember will set you ablaze.”
Her panted breaths are accompanied by soft whimpering noises as she sits up slowly, favoring her thigh and her ribs. She leans her back against the wall and re-wraps the blanket around herself, angling her bare feet carefully under the brazier bowl. “It’s cold,” she mutters as if that explains her recklessness.
“Have I been too generous by providing you with a bed?”
She only stares back at me, seeming to be over the fright of my sudden appearance and now radiating contempt. Aware that threats and antagonism haven’t worked with her so far, I decide to change my line of attack. Lowering myself to the floor, I sit across from her, my back pressed to the side of the bed.
Long moments of uneasy silence pass while I study her shadowed features in the low glow of the coals, wondering how to start a conversation with her.
“Did I miss the torching of my possessions earlier?” she finally says. “Or has it been postponed until the morning?”
She comes out swinging and I have to smother the urge to laugh.Who is this brave little slip of a woman? Does she have no sense of self-preservation?I could crush her skull with my bare hands and yet she openly challenges me. I find it . . . not unappealing.
“How is it you’ve arrived with nothing to your name?”
She’s not impressed. “You mean in your infinite wisdom, you haven’t worked it out for yourself?”
I narrow my eyes. She piques my interest, yes, but my patience is already coming to an end. “Do you ever give a simple answer?”
“Actually, compared to you, I was very obliging this morning.”
Scratching at my beard, I suppose she’s right . . . if we were coming to this union on an even footing. Which we’re not. We never were. This is my home, not hers.
“If I ask again will you tell me about yourself?” Her tone morphs from slightly mocking to interested. “May I ask how old you are?”
I guess there’s no harm in giving her that much. “I’m twenty-four.”
“And your name is Luka?”
For some reason, talking about myself is distasteful. It feels like I’m letting her win some kind of undeclared competition.
She breaks into my thoughts. “Do you find some advantage in keeping your name from me?”
“I don’t need an advantage,” I retort. “This is my stronghold.”
Her expression closes off, and she nods like I’ve confirmed her worst suspicions. This is not going how I’d like. I try to change the subject. “How’s the leg?”
I startle a humorless laugh out of her. “Why do you care?”
“I had nothing to do with that if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Her brows lift, showing me how skeptical that statement makes her. “I thought this was your stronghold.”
“It is. But that doesn’t mean I can control a mother’s grief.” My words are weak even to my ears, but I refuse to admit to any wrongdoing. “And what about your ankle?”
The way she’s taking my measure is reminiscent of my father’s scrutiny when I was a child. He was always looking for cracks in my armor that could be exploited. In that context, I easily wait her out.
Finally, like I’m inconveniencing her, she lifts the blanket and extends her foot in my direction. “Still bruised, but I’ll live.”
It’s improved even from this morning, though the skin is still a mottled yellow and green. “Be sure not to baby it or it will never be as it was.”
Her amber eyes flare. “I will never be as I was.”
It’s clear she’s not referring to her physical injuries and I suddenly feel like a fish out of water. I don’t like it – at all . . . so intensely that I start to heave myself off the floor.
