Andlookingat her.
Until he pulled his horse to a stop outside of stone cottage.
“We have arrived.”
His declaration drew her out of her stupor—one that she inwardly berated herself for because the terror she had felt knowing that poor beast’s death was replaced with some giddy, girlish feeling that she did not like. Not at all.
Admiring his handsomeness was one thing, butthiswassomething entirely different. Terrifying in a way that made her stomach feel as if someone had taken every single stone from the walls of that cottage and piled them at the bottom of it.
No sooner than she drew her own horse to a stop did she throw herself off of it and begin to retrieve her things. Ilias’s hand collided with hers, finger brushing in such a simple way and, yet, it wasn’t. Her fingers tingled under his touch, the shadows inched their way up her spine and through muscle and tendon to wrap around her senses.
“I’ve got it.” She snapped. “I may be entitled and spoiled, but I cancertainlyretrieve my own luggage.”
Ilias took a step back, heaving a sigh before he turned and walked away.
Chapter 3
G’Illach was once Ilias’s home.
During the first year after his mother’s death, freshly orphaned and roughened from two years of begging for food on the streets in the human city that outcasted his mother, Ilias found refuge here.
The warriors took him in—treated him like a brother and trained him out of the kindness of their own hearts. Or they just felt incredibly sorry for him, in all of his malnourished and neglected glory. Nonetheless, they taught him the necessary skills to please the previous Captain of the Silver Guard, thus pleasing the king.
It sickened him knowing what he knew now—how the male he had worked so hard for, paraded his talent and skill for, was no better a male than the humans who had tried to take advantage of him when he was young and desperate. The thought of it was nauseating. And as much as he tried to push it to the back of his mind, it was hard to forget when he was forced into such close proximity with that male’s victim.
Kaya did not seemed bothered by the revelation. Not as much as he was. She showed up to training every morning before breakfast, did the drills he asked her to, listened to the female sparring instructor thoroughly, and did not complain at all.
She spoke to him, but it was not the nonsensical rambling from before. Days passed, turning to weeks before he saw the slightest hint of emotion from her. She was oddly compliant and impersonal—tending to her goats after long days of work, and then retiring to their dreadfully silent cottage to read her books and paid no mind to him when he returned from his ownduties.
He at least expected her to be curious as to where he wandered off to during the evenings, but nothing about his existence seemed to quite pique her interest.
Ilias received a crumpled brow and a frown when he arrived one night with blood dripping from his stomach. It wasn’t deep enough to require assistance, but it hurt like hell and he leaked blood from the door all the way to the washroom, where Kaya stood and watched as he cleaned and bandaged the damage dealt from the horned serpent.
He told himself that the thing had crept up on him, but the truth was that he was distracted. Andhadbeen. Incredibly so. The guilt ate at him. And ate. And ate. Until all he could think about was the look on her face when he told her he would teach her respect. Ilias Dothrae was not one to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. But he would if it meant that she understood he was so horribly, terribly…
Sorry.
So sorry, in fact, that he spent the evening trailing her, waiting for the right moment to apologize. He watched her laughing with the female warriors, smiling as she fed her damned goats, and watched her tell the children of G’Illach her stories around the fire atCaddat,a multiple day fest meant to celebrate all of Cadaith’s creations. The children watched her so intently, their bright round eyes following her every movement—every word as if they could physicallyseethestory.
As Ilias drew closer to where she sat, he began to see, as well.
He was transported to a time and place that no longer existed—the place that was here before Galore, before Caddagh came and started to push their people out. A place where large, winged creatures blew fire into the air; where males, females, and children ran naked through forests of towering pines and willows. A place where the river was appreciated, as was the power and magic of life that flowed through it.
Ilias hadn’t realized what happened until Kaya stopped talking.
The children had long since dispersed, leaving the two of them alone. She stared at him with those wild blue eyes, her arms folded across her chest asshe approached him. It was noticeable that she was keeping a safe distance, her guarded posture saying more than she realized.
“You have an unnatural talent for storytelling.” It sounded ridiculous the moment he said it and when he reached up to scratch at the scruff that Kaya hatefully admired, he saw that wonderful gleam return to her eyes. It flickered there momentarily before she sighed and turned away. “The stories about the dragons,” he followed behind her, not too closely as if she were an animal he dared not to spook. “Were they real?”
“They’re still real. Majority of them flew to other continents when they sensed unrest. From what I have read, there is said to be three still alive here in Galore, but they’re burrowed under the mountain and won’t come out. There is no exact location of their lair, though. Only Hyara and the High Order are said to know where they are.” Kaya explained, pulling her long and tangled hair over her shoulder as she knelt to pick up her books. He tried to avert his eyes, but they stayed honed in on the exposed flesh of her neck that was so pale it was almost translucent. A violent shiver forced him to stand straighter, his body far more rigid than before.
Ilias strode forward, his movements careful as he helped her retrieve her things. She paid him no mind, still, as she extended her hand in his direction and motioned for him to hand her the books. He stilled, tucking them under his arm.
“Ailikaya, I would like to speak with you.” His tone was soft, gentle enough that her eyes involuntarily lifted to meet his. She assessed him, finally, after weeks of ignoring him. And he was just as strikingly peculiar as he had been the first time she saw him. “I must apologize to you. I never meant to make you feel threatened. I can assure you that it is within my honor and duty not only to your father, but myself, to never put you in harms way. Of any kind.”
Kaya sunk her teeth into her lower lip, observing him as he spoke. Even though he seemed sincere, there was no telling his true nature. A multitude of males could issue the most handsome apologies, only for them to turn around and do the very thing they never swore to do again.
There was a softness in Ilias’s eyes. A softness that told a story of a boy who experienced the same kind of hurt she had—a story of a boy that alsohad a hard time believing people when they apologized for doing something wrong. Words were only worth so much in the grand scheme of all things. In nature, you could not talk a wild animal into trusting you. There were no amount of sweet nothings and assurances whispered into the ear of a wild horse that could keep it from trampling you. It took routine dedication and patience, repeatedly proving that you are gentle and mean no harm.
