I wish she could see my weaves. How far I’ve come.
But the dead see nothing.
It’s dark when I finally set my work down. I massage my hands, stretching my fingers to ease the aches.
A flicker captures my attention. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Ramsey’s silver eyes.
He’s staring at me.
I swallow a knot in my throat, wondering if I should say something. Would it make me appear strong? Or would he mistake my nervous chatter for fear?
I open my mouth to apologize for the situation he’s been put in, suddenly remembering that the Tempest men think apologies are weak.
I settle on saying, “Thank you for bringing Amber back,” thinking he can’t possibly take offense at that.
“I would think one such as you would not have wanted her back.”
“And why would you think that?”
“She makes you small to make herself big.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“Does that not make you mad?”
I consider his words before replying. “It’s not that it doesn’t make me mad, but arguing with her or about her isn’t worth it.”
“Your honor is not worth it?” He turns, and the moonlight coming in from the window illuminates his muscled torso.
I don’t remember him taking off his shirt, and for one terrifying moment, I wonder if he’s also slipped out of his pants.
I feel an unexpected rush sweep through me, and my cheeks flush with worry that he can somehow sense the effect he’s having on me.
Which is unusual, to say the least.
Focus, Asha—he’s waiting for an answer…
“To me, honor isn’t about how other people perceive you,” I manage to say.
He snickers. “Is your honor so low that you would redefine it?”
“No, but basing it on perception is a lie conjured by the prideful.”
“Then tell me, weak Asha, how would you define honor?”
“How dutiful you are, that you do what needs to be done, no matter how big or small it is, and whether you do right by those in your charge.”
Instead of arguing with me as I expect him to do, he rolls onto his back, his silver orbs disappearing.
He turns nearly black without the moonlight, but his presence has never felt larger.
I should sleep, if that’s even possible with him present.
I pull off my outer layer of clothes, leaving me in a thin shift.
Ramsey gives an angry grunt, and I remember that he’d said I smelt bad. Seeing as how I’d bathed earlier in the day and I haven’t worked up a sweat, there’s little that can be done about my odor, save wrapping myself in as many layers as possible, which sounds miserable considering the temperatures outside. Not to mention that catering to Ramsey could make me appear weak.
Perhaps if I’m smelly, he’ll be compelled to spend time out of the hut, and I can weave in silence.
