He walks in silence. But his hand doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop tracing my back in gentle reassurance as my gasping breaths begin to calm.
By the time we stop, I feel boneless. Drowsy, and my voice almost slurs. “Where are we?”
“I have a home on the outskirts of town,” Callan says quietly. “It’s vastly preferable to being up there, although Petyr hates it.”
I don’t want to think about Petyr. About the victory in his face. But I swallow. “He is… there is something going on, Callan. With him, and the Metallurgist.”
A soft squeeze of my neck. “Tell me.”
As the words roll free, Callan’s body turns stiff beneath mine, until I’m not sure he’s breathing at all. “Show me your hands.”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. It was the shock, more than anything—”
“It is not fine.” His hand shifts, carefully setting me down on cool, cobbled stone. And then my hands are cradled in his, his eyes examining the marks left by whatever metal they used on me.
Behind me, a shift. A wooden door smashes open, banging against a wall, and I hear a crash from inside.
Callan’s eyes don’t glow. They blaze fire and fury. “They gave you cutlery that burned your fucking hand.”
His gaze does not burn me. It warms up the ice that has settled over my skin. My hands find his face, the faintest edge of bristles brushing against my palms. I keep my voice soft. “I’m alright.”
“I was right outside.” He takes a breath, and I hear another crash. “Damn Petyr and his schemes.”
“You’re going to break your house, and I haven’t even had a chance to see it yet.” Something about his anger soothes the rising panic inside my chest. An ebb and flow between us, almost tangible. “I knew you were outside. That’s why I left immediately.”
His eyes begin to settle.
My fingers find the back of his neck, running over the skin there. Callan exhales. His forehead finds mine. “They didn’t touch you.”
“No,” I say quietly. I keep touching him, feeling his body shake beneath my hands. My fingers edge down, beneath the neckline of his shirt. “I would have called you.”
“What are you doing to me?” With his eyes closed, they sound like a confession. “I need you to swear it—that you’re not keeping something from me. Because if they did touch you, I will hunt them both down.”
Truth. Raw, unbroken honesty, and it frightens me almost as much as it thrills me. “I don’t want you to do that.”
“Did they?”
“No,” I say gently. I find myself tugging his hands, stepping back over the doorway. “Show me this house of yours, Callan.”
Truth again. His hand brushes my cheek as he shifts past me, his breathing still heavy. Both of us are breathing heavily, in fact, as he strikes flint against a lantern that lights up the small space.
Turning, I take in his home, this space that feels so much more him than his empty room in the temple. The carefully oiled wood beneath my feet gleams like honey, covered with a mixture of brightly-colored rugs. “These are from Terrosa.”
“They are.” He walks over to a sturdy-looking, if small, wooden dining table in the middle of the open room and checks the pitcher on top. “In the early days, food was not such a priority, since the lichen hadn’t spread. I was more of a merchant then.”
“I see.” My eyes sweep past, taking in the shelves filled with knick-knacks, clay pots, and jars and basic cooking items. Behind that, tucked out of view is a neatly-made bed in the corner, and my cheeks heat.
We shared a room onVolatus. This is nothing. Yet I find myself swallowing against the sudden dryness in my throat. “I like this house.”
The air is lighter here than in the castle. And it is a castle. No longer a temple, but Petyr’s domain.
Callan takes my hand as he walks past, tugging me down beside the empty hearth. There are pillows beneath me for lounging, jeweled in color and stitched with gold and silver thread. Settling myself, I pull up my legs as Callan’s hands arrange wooden blocks in the fireplace, striking the flint and coaxing a flame from the sparks that appear. He arranges an iron band over the flames that begin to flicker, hanging a pot that he fills with water and sprinkling some leaves into it. “Tea will warm you up.”
The light of the fire glows against his cheek as he turns to me, his eyes reflecting the flame. “Come a little closer.”
Unfurling myself, I shuffle forward on my knees. The warmth hits my skin, and the tension holding my muscles hostage softens as I follow Callan’s movements. The linen shirt he wears shifts, turning opaque against the light, and my eyes linger on the muscle beneath his shoulders.
He is well-defined, I suppose. Arresting, even. Enough that when he looks over his shoulder and catches me staring, my face erupts as if I’ve plunged it into the fire.
