Forged by Magic (Falling for Fables, #1)(27)

That there truly was a life outside of Fafnir Castle. That, if I played my cards right, a place like this could be my future, not just a passing dream.

Sighing, I drank the water and then wandered out of the bedroom, following the scent of food. The living room was silent and empty, and there was no sign of Rivelin or Skoll, though the blanket on the sofa had been folded into a neat little square and placed on top of his pillow.

I nibbled on my bottom lip, a guilty twang going through me. Perhaps we should take turns on the sofa. It only seemed fair.

The scent of crispy bacon and fried potatoes led me through the archway into the kitchen. A plate of food had been left on the counter, covered by a cloth. While I’d been sleeping the drink away, Rivelin had been up and at ‘em, cooking me breakfast and getting a head-start on the day.

Perhaps…perhaps I’d been wrong to judge him the way I had. He might not walk around with a smile on his face, but neither did I—at least not a real one. And there might be the scent of dragon in his room, but…well, I couldn’t think of a good explanation for that one. He didn’t act like a Draugr, at least any I’d met. He didn’t have that wildness, that cruelty in his eyes. And his hands, when they touched me…I shivered just thinking of the steam that hissed between us.

In the privacy of my own thoughts, I could admit something about it felt thrilling. Toe-curling, almost.

As I ate, I heard a hammer thudding behind the building. I finished my food, carefully rinsed my plate, and left it to dry on the counter before looking out the window. Rivelin was out back with yesterday’s wood piled around him. He’d lined up the larger of the logs in a row and stood above them, his bare chest glistening in the baking sun.

My stomach flipped as a delicious heat seared me. His broad chest was home to mountainous peaks that spoke of hard-earned strength and power. Fingers tensing, I couldn’t help but wonder what those ridges felt like. Would just one touch be like the spray of the storm-tossed sea? Would those muscles rumble against my hands like thunder?

I blinked and sucked in a breath when I realized the torrid direction of my thoughts. What in fate’s name was wrong with me? It wasn’t as if I’d never seen a man’s bare chest before. In fact, at court, Isveig liked to parade around half-naked with his entourage, making certain every woman in the castle got a glimpse.

“Right.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers, and my palm brushed a splatter of dirt. I was still wearing the same thing I’d worn all day yesterday. Rivelin likely expected me to join him after I bathed, and truth be told I probably owed him that, at least.

And then I remembered.

As soon as I’d stepped inside his blacksmith shop last night, the scent of dragon had been so strong I’d almost gagged. In the haze of the celebration, I’d forgotten all about it. After everything he’d done—and who he was showing himself to be—I didn’t want to think the worst of him. I wanted to trust him, fates be damned. I shouldn’t want it. I really, truly shouldn’t.

Just like I never should have trusted Isveig.

A whistling breath escaped from my throat, and I stole across the floor to the door that led down the stairs and into his blacksmith shop. While he was busy building the boat, I’d just take a quick look around, more to confirm he wasn’t playing with fire than to confirm he was. I didn’t want to find any evidence, but my nose had never lied to me.

I just had to hope there was a good explanation.

The steps creaked as I inched into the shop. I quietly shut the door behind me, and the scent of dragon hit me like a punch. My eyes nearly watered from the force of it, from the all-consuming pull I’d always felt toward that power. As I tiptoed past the anvil—almost as tall as me and twice as wide—I breathed through my mouth to give me some relief from the onslaught.

But my throat burned and my gut twisted and every hair on my arms stood on end.

I shuddered, sweeping my eyes across a collection of hammers and some horseshoes hung along the wooden beam to my right. The truth was as thick and cloying as the scent. I’d wanted to give Rivelin the benefit of the doubt, but there was no mistaking the depths of his involvement with this. He couldn’t have picked this scent up by accident. For it to be this strong, he’d been near a dragon or he’d used their volatile magic himself. Very recently.

If he was using dragon magic, he was a Draugr, and I had to stop him. And the entire village, too, if they were involved. All the kindness he’d shown me, it had been nothing but a lie to get me to trust him, to look the other way.

I stole a glance over my shoulder to make certain he hadn’t wandered back into the house. The heavy thud of his boots would give me enough warning to get out of here, but thankfully, the only answering sound was distant birdsong.

He’d only shown me his shop for the briefest of moments. And he’d been acting oddly, too, likely suspecting I might sniff out the truth. Perhaps he’d hidden some evidence somewhere amidst all the horseshoes and hammers and tongs. If I could find that, I could be certain I was doing the right thing by telling Isveig about this place when I left—if we didn’t win the Midsummer Games, of course. Then I’d have to take care of the dragon magic problem myself. How? I had no idea, but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

There were few places in the shop someone might hide something. Inside the forge itself was a possibility. What better way to throw someone off the scent than by burying any contraband beneath a pile of charred coals? Of course, then I likely wouldn’t scent dragon at all. Coal hid smells extremely well.