I wish he saw what I see—the potential of an uncut gem.
“In Charmont,” Basten asks, while keeping his attention out the window, “You said the Patron mentioned the Grand Cleric, didn’t you?”
I wonder why he’s suddenly thinking back on Charmont. “Yes, he said the Grand Cleric wanted to see me. I can’t imagine why.” I sink further into the tub, splashing the water gently so it makes a lovely rippling against my skin. Basten’s jaw twitches at the sound. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” But something must be on his mind, because not a minute later, he says, “What do they say in Bremcote about Volkany?”
“Volkany? The cursed kingdom?” What on earth has him asking about that forgotten place? It was walled off five hundred years ago after the war, and the only times I’ve heard it mentioned were in stories meant to frighten children. Bloodthirsty godkissed soldiers from Volkany will come turn your blood to ice if you don’t eat your cabbage.
“I don’t know—nothing, really. The Sisters at the convent believed Immortal Vale’s resting place was somewhere in the Volkish forest. That he’d wake soon, and fae would rule the earth again. The usual refrain. They also believed the moon was a giant firefly . . . I wouldn’t put too much stock in their words.” I give him a slant-eyed look. “Why, are you trying to give me nightmares?”
“Nightmares?”
“You know. Volkany’s beasts. Birds who spread disease like rain. Monstrous horses that summon fire. Or their vicious soldiers with a fondness for impaling their enemies, then making the corpses dance with magic?”
His forehead is so pinched that his eyebrows nearly touch.
I flick a small splash of water his way. “Come on, Basten. I’m only joking. All that happened centuries ago.”
“Hmm.” He scrubs his hand over his stubble, thinking.
I finish scrubbing my scalp and hair, and then dunk myself under the water to rinse off, coming up with a gasp for air. I climb out, dripping, and perch on the bathtub’s edge while I towel off. “You should bathe, too, while the water is still warm.”
I think he might press more about whatever has him concerned with Volkany, but he drops it. Without turning my way, he gestures toward the pile of clothes on the bed. “Dress yourself so that I can turn around.”
I deadpan, “Yeah, gods forbid you see me naked.”
He snorts, but still grants me privacy until I shimmy into the long white chemise that laces over my breasts, and then pull on a mauve wool outer gown that drapes over it. The fabric is new and clean, and as I smooth my hands over its folds, I marvel at how I feel like a different person wearing clothes.
It’s like I’ve been an animal these past few days, sleeping in the dirt, eating roasted meat from a fire, wearing nothing but bad dreams. Suddenly I’ve rejoined the actual world, and I feel both incredibly relieved and, strangely, a little lost, like I don’t know what to do with my hands anymore.
“Your turn in the tub,” I say.
After he turns around, Basten takes his time studying me in the dress while I finish toweling off my hair. I can’t quite read his expression. He looks like he’s trying to solve some secret code in a language he doesn’t know.
Finally, he says with a note of fascination, “I’ve never seen you in clothes.”
It’s true. Since he walked through my father’s gate, the most I’ve worn is a silk robe or his own oversized shirt. Heat blooms on my cheeks as I straighten a twisted hem on my left sleeve cuff. It’s ironic, but for some reason, I feel more embarrassed standing before him clothed than naked.
To ease the heavy silence, I blurt out, “If it’s true what is said about men’s lustfulness, then I’m sure my present state must disappoint you.”
I meant it as a joke, but Basten doesn’t laugh. He remains grave as he holds my gaze with an iron focus and says, “A wrapped present can be even more enticing than an unwrapped one, my lady.”
A shiver dances up my spine as I think of Basten taking his slow, intentional time unwrapping me from my coverings to pounce on the gifts within.
Great. Now my cheeks are blazing.
I trade places with him at the window as he drags his shirt over his head and tosses it on the bed. Even though I keep my back turned, the sounds of him stripping out of his boots and pants and easing into the warm water with a masculine sigh stoke my curiosity until it’s aflame. I’ve seen Basten’s bare chest almost every night, but what lies below on a man’s body is a mystery. All I have to go off are the illustrations in Immortal Alyssantha’s sections of the Book of the Immortals: One, in particular, comes to mind, featuring Immortal Alyssantha and Immortal Samaur, naked together with their fey lines glowing. The God of Sun’s member enters the goddess’s sacred center while her ankles rest on his shoulders; her head is tipped back in ecstasy, his tanned hand squeezes her breast.
It’s all I can do not to wonder if Basten has ever had a woman in that position.
The innkeeper brings us supper, and we sit at the table and eat with actual silverware like two civilized people. It feels foreign and strange to be with Basten like this, instead of crouched around a campfire, and it thrills me as much as throws me off balance.
I’m so busy savoring the wine and warm-baked, buttery bread that I don’t even notice we’ve talked all evening, until Basten lights a candle. To my surprise, dusk slipped in at some point and darkened the room.
I stifle a yawn.
“You should sleep, Lady Sabine. Tomorrow, we’ll press on north, and be in Duren within two days.” He stands and arranges his rucksack on the rug, by the fireplace, as though he’s planning on using it as a pillow.
It’s now or never.
Slowly, I untie the wool overdress and tug it over my head, leaving me in the long chemise. I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes as I draw back the bedcovers.
I clear my throat. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know. We shared a blanket in the forest. It’s no different to share a bed.”
He considers the soft, clean sheets as I slide into them, making an exaggerated show of leaving the other side open in invitation. But he doesn’t make a move toward the bed—yet.
I pat the other pillow insistently, keeping my voice light. “I can see how your shoulder pains you—you need a night on a mattress. Otherwise, how will you be able to throw punches at all the men leering at me tomorrow?”
He gives a faint laugh, though his eyes remain serious. Wordlessly, he dims the lamp. Then, finally decided, he tugs off his shirt so that he’s only in his pants.
“Very kind of you, Lady Sabine.”
The mattress groans as his weight sinks onto it. It’s all I can do not to roll into the dip his massive body creates.
I ease back against my pillow, my heart walloping. “Good night, Basten.”
“Good night, my lady.”
In the lantern’s dim light, I stare up at the rafters. My body is exhausted, yet I’ve never felt more awake. Though we’ve slept next to each other before, something about sharing a bed does feel different, despite what I assured him. I’m aware of every crack of his joints and rustle of his pillow. The tension is so visceral that it feels like there’s a third person in bed with us.