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The corner of Hawthorne’s mouth tugged upward, showing a hint of that dimple she knew lay beneath his beard. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’
‘It’s…’
‘Distracting?’ he finished for her.
‘Yes,’ she said, unamused, only just realising that she’d balled up his freshly laundered cloak and shirt in her hands. She dropped them onto a bench that lined the wall, heat flooding her body. She had to look away from him. She glanced around the inside of the cabin. It was not at all what she expected. Unlike the Warsword himself, it was warm and welcoming. A small fire crackled in the hearth and an array of potted plants were positioned all over the room, adding a pop of colour. A table and chairs were shoved up against the wall beneath one of the windows, and two tattered armchairs sat before the fire.
‘Don’t even think about making yourself at home,’ came that deep, rumbling voice.
Thea nearly jumped.
He re-entered the room still barefoot but wearing loose-fitting pants, an unbuttoned shirt hanging over his chiselled body as he surveyed her.
‘You seem to have healed well enough,’ he commented.
‘Thanks to my sister,’ Thea replied. ‘And to you,’ she said earnestly. ‘I’m not sure what would have happened to me if you hadn’t helped that day.’
‘You would have died in a broom closet.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Let’s see it then.’
Thea baulked, her skin suddenly tingling. ‘See what?’
‘Your wound. How it’s healed.’
‘It’s fine. My sister —’
‘Show me.’ It was not a request. Command laced his voice and Thea knew from experience that the Warsword was used to getting his way.
For that fact alone she wanted to be the one to deny him. ‘No,’ she said.
He was a blur of movement and suddenly she was pinned to the wall; her cloak pushed aside and her shirt untucked and lifted, revealing the bare skin of her side beneath, and the fresh, pink scar that marred it.
‘Don’t you usually offer your guests a drink before you rip their clothes off?’ she muttered, trying to ignore the heat of his body so close to hers.
‘Not usually, no.’
But she heard the whistle of air between his teeth as his fingers grazed the newly healed wound. ‘He should have been flayed for this.’
Goosebumps rushed across Thea’s skin at the contact, and she could have sworn invisible lightning crackled between them.
‘He’ll get what’s coming to him,’ Thea vowed.
Hawthorne’s fingers lingered on the scar, sending a forceful current racing through her. ‘You’re going to have to be stronger and faster than this when that day comes.’
Gods, he was close. Thea would only have to lift her head and lean in for his lips to be on hers. Her traitorous body nearly did exactly that as she inhaled that intoxicating rosewood scent, as she felt the heat from his freshly bathed body radiate onto her.
‘I will be,’ Thea promised, her voice hoarse, her hand reaching for the hem of her shirt to drag it down.
Hawthorne seemed to hesitate, his hand suspended by her hip, as though he wanted to —
He stepped back, and the warmth between their bodies snuffed out. ‘You’re becoming a constant thorn in my side, Alchemist.’
Momentarily stunned, Thea tucked her shirt back in a tad too vigorously. ‘I may be a thorn in your side, but you know well enough by now I’m not an alchemist.’
He moved to the far corner where a small kitchen was tucked away. A goblet sat on the side and he picked it up, taking several long swigs before returning his gaze to her.
