Neither of us moved. I stared up at him, and he stared right back, the moonlight cutting a sharp line across his jaw.
“We should hurry back to the forge,” he murmured.
Swallowing, I nodded. “Of course.”
“In the morning, I’ll report this theft to the others on the Village Council,” he said, making no move to leave the alley. “It should be enough to kick him out of the competition.”
“Yes, it will.”
His eyes swept across my face. “Thank you, Daella. I—”
Lilia took that moment to rush around the corner. She waved at us feverishly, and whatever Rivelin had been about to say got left behind in the shadows of that alley. As we took the return route to the forge, Lilia apologized profusely for failing to keep Gregor’s attention, despite the fact we’d scored the loot. Every few steps, I cast a furtive glance at Rivelin. Had he felt what I’d felt, back on that floor? What had I even felt, anyway?
Perhaps it had been nothing more than the excitement of the moment. We’d almost gotten caught, and both our hearts had been racing. Of course it was normal to get lost in that. It hadn’t been anything more.
And it never could be.
22
DAELLA
“I ’m telling you, I did not steal Rivelin’s tools!” Gregor threw up his hands and paced before the small crowd, including his very stern-faced mother. He jerked his thumb at Rivelin. “It’s him. He’s framing me to knock me out of the Midsummer Games. I’m his biggest competition, and he knows he can’t hack it unless I’m gone.”
Odel’s wings twitched as she frowned at the golden-haired elf. “Rivelin would never trash his forge. He loves that place.”
Hofsa sighed. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Odel. We all witnessed what you did to Kari, and while you made sure to stay within the laws of the competition then, you have quite blatantly broken our laws this time. You’re no longer a contestant in the Midsummer Games, and we’ll have to think if you need an additional punishment. We do not destroy and steal another’s property here, son. That’s the kind of behavior we’d expect in the Grundstoff Empire. And we will not allow it.”
I could not hide my surprise. All this time, I’d assumed his mother was in on his schemes to win the Games and that was how he’d cheated to compete on three separate occasions. So if she hadn’t been the one to aid him, who was? I glanced around at the crowd. Who would actually want him to participate, and why?
His mother walked purposefully to the stage, where five jars of pebbles still stood. She removed Gregor’s and poured out the contents, her eyes never leaving her son’s furious face.
“I didn’t do this,” he said through gritted teeth. “And one day you’ll find out the truth and look like a fool. Your precious Rivelin isn’t the saint he says he is.”
After shooting a glare in my direction, he stormed out of the square. Gregor was out. But Rivelin was right. It didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as it should have.
R ivelin and I fell into a pleasant routine over the next week. After we’d finished clearing his shop, he fired up the forge to start on our item for the Fildur Trial, and every morning at dawn we shared breakfast at his kitchen table—and with Skoll—before starting the work for the day. We enjoyed easy conversation as the flames roared around us, and then we broke for lunch where we often met Lilia, Odel, and Haldor in the square. Occasionally, we’d visit Elma at the Dreaming Dragon Inn, and she always put some extra olives on my plate. The afternoons were dedicated to more forging, some of which included working through Rivelin’s long list of commissions for the villagers: horseshoes, candlesticks, and a new plow for one of the local farmers. At the end of every day, I was so exhausted I often went straight to bed after dinner.
A couple of times, I offered to swap the bed for the sofa, but Rivelin firmly refused.
On the sixth night of all-day blacksmithing, I sat on the roof and tipped back my head to gaze up at the stars. There was a gentle breeze this evening, and there was a whisper of a chill in the air. I sighed and then breathed it in. Hard work felt good. I’d gone on a lot of missions for Isveig, but I’d never done physical labor quite like this.
The sky rumbled, a signal that rain was on its way. I hugged my arms to my chest and frowned, wishing I could have just a few more moments outside. But another rumble soon followed the first. Sighing, I moved to the ladder. Before I could make it back inside, big droplets of rain roared down from above.
I winced as the water made contact with my arms and cheeks. I’d only just healed from the lake. Gritting my teeth, I descended the ladder. Rivelin rushed out from the rear door of his shop—where he was still working—and tugged me inside, his face etched with concern.
He scanned me from head to toe, lingering on where my cheeks sizzled from the skyward attack. “How bad is it? Do I need to get some salt?”
I pressed my fingers to my cheek and winced. “I was only out there for a few moments. I’ve experienced far worse, as you well know.”
“Hmm.” He strode over to his worktable and flipped open a small trunk. A moment later, he returned to my side with a bag of salt, a bowl, and some dirt in his hands. “Have a seat. I’ll sort it out.”
I hopped up on the anvil, watching him pour a bit of salt in a bowl. “Where’d that bag come from? And the mud?”
“Swung by the alchemist’s yesterday when you were in the bath. Thought I should stock up on salt and keep some in here, just in case. Looks like I was right.”
My chest warmed as he dipped his fingers into the mixture and then spread the salve across my cheek. It didn’t even hurt anymore, but I didn’t have it in me to tell him, not when he was being so kind.
“You keep a special bag of salt in your forge for me.”
He set down the bowl beside me. “I don’t want my assistant to be hurt.”
I smiled. “Careful. At this rate, you won’t live up to your reputation of being a grumpy, insufferable bastard.”
“Best keep it to yourself, then,” he said in a low murmur. “How’s your cheek feeling now?”
“Better.”
“Have any other wounds that need tending?”
I shuddered as he dipped his fingers into the salve and then slid the mixture across a spot on my neck just below my ear. His touch was soft and gentle, and the steam from our contact erased any lingering pain, not that I would have been able to think of anything but the closeness of his body to mine.
My thighs spread instinctively, and without a word, he edged his body between them. Angling his head, he continued to rub the salt down the side of my neck, stopping only when he reached my collarbone. I held myself very still, scarcely daring to even breathe. My heart was rapturous thunder in my chest.
“How is that?” he asked.
“I…” A furious heat filled my cheeks. “I think a little rain may have gotten into my shirt.”
What in fate’s name was I doing? Rivelin was the enemy, except…he wasn’t. Not anymore. He never had been. He was an angry, grumpy bastard, but he was also inexplicably kind, courageous, and protective of his people. And he was not not handsome. In fact, he was extremely attractive, even more than all the other elves I saw here every day.