Light. Simple. Organic.
I glance down, seeing my attire has been changed, brushing my fingers across the black silk shift buying me all the modesty I could hope for in this oppressive heat. A good sign that accepting Kaan’s málmr is not going to lead me to a life on my back, staring up at stitched-together hides while I grow some mystical offspring meant to save the world from impending moonfalls.
This is good.
I can work with this.
I let the málmr thump against my chest, shove the sheet off, and push to a wobbly stand, my stare landing on a gold and copper framed body-length mirror mounted to the wall. I frown at the image of myself staring back.
The black sleep shift spills off my curves, the neckline draped across my full bust, the hem falling to midthigh and baring my long pale legs. The sheath is a perfect match to the tone of my loose hair that’s cloaking me like a sheet of silk, falling all the way to my hips in long, ruffled tendrils.
Somebody washed me, dressed me, and brushed my hair. Not sure what I did to deserve such service.
I step closer, hands lifting to my face, noticing my cheeks are flushed pink from the heat, my lips a deeper tone of red—my body so unattuned to this oppressive temperature that all my capillaries appear to be working overtime.
Tipping my head to the side, I ease my thick, heavy locks away from the dull throb in my temple, fingers skating over the unblemished flesh.
My frown deepens.
Not a single scar paying tribute to the mace that cracked me open.
Huh.
Kaan must’ve organized a Runi to thread me back together. That’s nice. Fine treatment for a prisoner still bound in an iron shackle. Not that I’m complaining. Pretty sure one more smack to the skull would’ve been the end of me.
I turn away, am about to move to the shutters so I can see where in this Creators-forsaken world I’ve ended up, when a vision flashes, striking me like another blow to the head, making me feel like the world’s tipping.
Plummeting.
I grip the burnished mirror, easing it to the side, revealing a hollow cavity in the stone behind. I thread my arm into the hole, pulling out a leather-bound book I tug close to my chest— The memory disintegrates, like crumbling dirt sifting through the gaps between my fingers, refusing to clump back together again no matter how hard I try to fist them into shape.
My heart lodges so far up my throat it’s hard to breathe past.
What the fuck was that?
Swallowing, my gaze drifts back to the mirror, an unsteady hand extending toward the frame and gripping tight. I slide it right, and my heart dislodges from my throat, then whumps into my gut when I see a rough-hewn cavity. Empty. Big enough to fit a book and not much else.
My blood turns to a thick, icy sludge …
The door behind me snicks shut, and I whip around, letting go of the mirror. The heavy thing scuffs back into place as I take in the female leaning against the door, one leather boot kicked back. She uses a small dragonscale blade to slice crisp milk-colored shards off a round black fruit, biting into them, zesting the air with tart sweetness.
The female’s skin is sun-kissed, her long hair full of body and a warm shade of brown, threaded with natural highlights that complement her ember eyes. It’s braided on one side, decorated with brown beads.
Freckles dust her nose and cheeks, a roguish elegance to her shapely stature that’s hard to look away from. She’s fiercely beautiful, exuding an aura of confidence that’s palpable in this small, stuffy room.
“Who are you?”
“Kaan’s asshole sister you don’t want to get on the wrong side of,” she says, lashes lifting as she gives me a once-over, then goes back to slicing her fruit, crunching through its watery flesh.
My stomach rumbles, clenching around its hollowness, eyes narrowing on the blade. Becoming primally aware that this prickly female has a weapon.
And I absolutely do not.
“You don’t like me,” I muse, edging right to rest my hip against the side table. She doesn’t shift her gaze from the fruit as I grip the unlit sconce—tall, gold, and heavy enough to knock somebody unconscious with minimal effort. Precautions. “You don’t even know me.”
“Debatable.”
I arch a brow. “Meaning?”
Her lashes flick up, that sharp stare scraping across my face, down to the málmr resting between my breasts, bowing the silky material into the generous dip. “That means something, you know. You don’t just accept one, then toss it in your jewelry box to wear with your favorite outfit.”
Joke’s on her because I have no outfits.