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“Are they?”
He smells like iron and rust, and underneath that, there’s a tang of sweet frankincense and white pepper. Is it possible that all Fae-blooded people smell good to me?
Is it possible that his smell doesn’t matter?
But the scent won’t let me be, and I take another breath, letting the aroma settle within me. Unbelievably, the pounding headache eases a little, enough to let me think.
“Who the hell are you?” I whisper, leaning toward him without any conscious thought.
“My name is Rhian. I’m a servant here. The medicine and food is the extent of the help I can offer you.” Again that ruefulness. “Now I have to go chop wood and carry water and light up the fireplaces.”
“Rhian…”
“And you?” he asks. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Finnen.”
“There’s something about you,” Rhian says as he turns to go. He pauses at the door of my cell. “I don’t even know why I want to help you.”
But I know. I’ve found another of our fated mates, one who might complete the clan and the bond Ariadne needs. I chuckle quietly at the irony.
“And you’re crazy,” Rhian goes on. “Great. I’ve been compelled to help a madman who is sentenced to die.”
“Isn’t it just funny,” I agree, wheezing. “Life is weird like that.”
Every time you think you have it figured out, the wheel turns and you find you know nothing at all.
