Mav’s throat worked. His hand twitched at his side, as though he longed to reach for me but thought better of it. He gave a single, tight nod. “Right,” he said softly. “Well…if you ever wanted to talk about it sometime…”
The unspoken words hung between us, warmer than the early spring air. It should not have mattered. And yet, some fragile, hidden place within me flared that he cared enough to ask, to offer. That he wanted to know me, even where I was broken. I ached to close the distance between us, to press my forehead to his chest and let his steady warmth banish the shadows. But I already felt too laid bare beneath his gaze. I was not prepared to open the sealed chambers of my heart and show him the jagged edges of what remained. I inclined my head, silent, while my fingers curled tightly in my skirts to keep from reaching for him.
Mav continued on. Confident. Unhurried. Entirely at home in his own skin. It was decidedly irritating.
“I know the tether means you have to be here,” he said overhis shoulder, voice too casual to be uncalculated, “but I also think you like watching me swing an axe.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “That is absurd.”
Mav tossed me a smirk. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
“I am here to assist,” I said primly, nudging a branch with my boot. “Not to gawk like a village simpleton.”
He laughed, low and warm, as if the sound had slipped his guard. “If you say so.”
I did not answer. Speech felt treacherous.
We came upon a fallen tree, massive, its roots half-rotted, but the trunk still sound. Mav circled, measured, and nodded. “This’ll do.”
He swung the axe from his shoulder, resting it against the tree. Then, with no ceremony whatsoever, he tugged his tunic over his head.
My eyes widened, my mouth falling open in scandal. “What are you doing?”
“I only brought so many clean shirts. Don’t feel like sweating through this one.”
“That—you—I—” I gave up on grammar.
“You alright there, princess?” He smirked. “You’re staring like I’ve done something indecent…or perhaps youwantto do something indecent.”
“I-I do not…I am not a princess.” I averted my gaze a heartbeat too late. “You are very…tan,” I muttered.
He barked a laugh and turned to the tree. “It’s called sunlight. You should try it sometime.”
I fixed my focus upon a moss-covered rock. I should not look at the lines cut neatly into his shoulders, nor the way light found the curve of his back when he raised the axe.
Of course, I looked.
How could I not?
Each swing sent muscle rippling down his spine, shouldersbunching and releasing in a rhythm that should not have been hypnotic and yet was. Sweat gathered at the nape of his neck and tracked down the length of him.
I told myself I was merely observing for educational purposes.
That was an untruth.
The truth was simpler: I wished to trace every line with my fingertips, with my mouth.
He unsettled me in ways I scarcely dared name. Whatever composure I claimed, I was still a woman of flesh and wanting. Capable of reason, yes, but not immune to need.
The axe bit again, his grunt loud in the hush, and I startled—both at the sound and at the realization that I had drifted so far into my own thoughts I had forgotten he could speak.
“Enjoying the show?” he teased.
“I-I do not know what you mean.”
“I think you knowexactlywhat I mean,” he purred.
I glared at the log as though it might intercede. “I was attempting to learn. I have never chopped wood.”
