I don’t know a lot about northern traditions, but I once read that it’s considered rude not to offer something in exchange for shelter. Maybe that’s the answer. And maybe I shouldn’t shed Kaan’s blood while staying here.
That would feel wrong, I think.
“I have nothing to gift in exchange for the time spent under your mah’s roof.”
There’s a moment of utter stillness before Kaan turns his head a little more—just enough for our eyes to meet. “Your name will do.”
My name …
I open my mouth, shutting it as I reconsider, then shake my head and blurt, “Raeve.”
All the color drains from his face.
He pulls a breath—slow. Like he’s consuming a meal he’s been looking forward to for longer than I care to admit. “Just Raeve?”
Another name sizzles through my soul like a burning scream.
Fire Lark.
Fire Lark.
Fire Lark.
“Just Raeve,” I say, stuffing the other down. Far away.
Gone.
He nods slowly, the ball in his throat rolling. “Well, thank you for the offering,” he says, followed by a soft, “Raeve. Please, enter my mah’s dwelling.”
He handles my name with such care and precision a shiver rakes up and down my spine—a sensation I try to ignore, stepping over the threshold and into the space that feels much like a warm hug. Perhaps the reason it chafes. Haven’t had one of those since—
Clearing my throat, I lift my chin and move toward the butcher block, sitting atop one of the three knobbly stools that each appear to be carved from a single stump of wood, placing my bound hands on the counter.
Kaan resumes his rinsing, time ticking by. He finishes cleaning the vegetables, dices them with a blade I duly note the location of, then piles them into a large pot with water, herbs, and salt. He sets it on the stove and clunks a lid on it.
He opens the small grated door of the stove’s plump metal belly, then pulls a weald from his pocket and flicks the hood. I cast my attention elsewhere as he whispers a sizzling word that coaxes a bulb of flame through the opening, kindling the prepacked pile of sticks into a roaring flame.
Closing the metal grate, he turns, his warm gaze roaming the side of my face while I stare out one of the windows to the world beyond. The room darkens by the moment—more and more clouds crowding the sky, sponging most of the light bar the flickers of orange spilling through the grill.
He snaps the lid back on his weald. “You don’t like fire.”
“I don’t like males with cocks bigger than their brains.” I slay him with a stare I hope cuts the head off his observation. “Unfortunately, that eliminates half the population.”
Silence bleeds between us, a victim of my slashing ire.
Arms crossed, he watches me. Unblinking.
Unyielding.
I watch him with the same intensity, sharpening more barbs to sling should he decide to have another pick at the subject. One that is, in fact, none of his fucking business.
He clicks his tongue, then moves around the butcher block.
Perfectly still, I watch from my periphery as he lumbers to the door and retrieves his saddlebags, dumping them on the long, cushioned seater. He brings the smaller one to the bench and flips the satchel open. Rooting through it, he pulls out a scroll of leather he unrolls, bearing a tidy collection of tools. He lifts a small hammer from one section, a tapered nail from another, and jerks his chin at my hands.
Frowning, I ease them toward him, remembering too late that I have a scale tucked between my bound wrists.
My heart leaps so high up my throat I almost choke.
Shit.
I silently beg him not to notice while he settles my hands on a folded piece of cloth, sets the nail against the pin of my right cuff, then taps it.
My brow lifts as the pin slides out, allowing him to loosen the iron cuff and wriggle it free, though he shows no inclination toward the one on my left wrist.
“What about my other one?” I ask, nudging my still-bound hands at him.
He bats them away. “Oddly enough, I’m in no mood to have my lungs minced.”
“Well, what about my ropes?” I shove my hands at his chest again. “I had a perfect opportunity to shove you off the cliff earlier, but I didn’t.” Only because I got distracted by the tick story, but he doesn’t need to know those finer, rather embarrassing details. I’m not usually so bad at … slaughtering. “That should earn my hands some freedom, surely. Small sign of good will?” I say, winking at him.
“Foot,” he drudges out, and I scowl.