I followed the point of his finger. True enough, Emi’s tight, icy braids were nearing the bridge to cross over onto palace grounds. She held her own purchases, but waved wildly as she bid farewell. With the distance between us I couldn’t see her sly grin, but I could damn well feel it.
My insides twirled when I faced Roark again. “I should follow her, I suppose.”
He shifted on his feet for a breath.I can stay with you.
What was this new…pressure that always seemed to gather in wretched places near Roark Ashwood? Chest, head, and somewhere low, low in my belly. “Well, then, lead the way, my lord Sentry.”
He feigned irritation at the mock propriety in my tone and stepped into the flow of the market, keeping close to my side.
Strange, but folk in the market seemed to revere the Sentry more personally than the Stav Guard.
Old women slipped him more than one fresh herb roll or strip of seasoned venison. Carpenters and street sweeps waved and bid him a good day. Roark responded with respect and something gentle, but there was a touch of shyness in each dip of the head, each twitch of his mouth. Seemed the Sentry cared for the attention of others as much as me.
The sun hung low in the sky when we paused over a wooden bridge to eat a parcel of sugared nuts one of the merchants had practically shoved into Roark’s belt.
I popped a nut onto my tongue and spun around, so my back was against the rail of the bridge. “I never knew you were so beloved, Sentry Ashwood. It is you who slows our pace from all the greetings and well-wishes.”
He stared at the nuts, a bit of heat in his face.I’ll try to be crueler so I do not delay your market days in the future.
“See that you do.” I grinned and stole another nut from his palm. “Is Dravenmoor like this? Markets, trade, old women trying to pinch your ass when you pass by?”
Roark smiled, and a sort of grumble rose in the back of his throat—his laughter—a sound I could pick out of a boisterous hall by now.I was young when I was exiled, but I recall each Jul going into town, lining up with other children, and receiving a sweet stick if I had been well-behaved.
There was an ease to his features as he spoke of childhood, even with the proof of agony and pain carved into his flesh.
“Selena, a cook in Jarl Jakobson’s house, would take me out to the star plum trees when they bloomed. We’d spend half a day braiding flower crowns and eating berries, then she’d tell me I was the queen of the whole orchard.” I smiled with a touch of sadness, and looked down at the river below. “I think she did it to brighten my heart whenever noble folk spoke cruelly.”
Roark’s shoulder brushed mine when he leaned onto his elbows over the rail.Then you’ve known good people.
“Yes. Some of the servants took to looking after me and Kael more than others. Selena is always convinced water nyks or huldufólk are invading, but she is so gentle. Thorian is a groundskeeper and fisherman. He knew Kael would be forced to see his father disregard him over and over, but never spoke of Jarl Jakobson. Instead, he taught Kael to fish in rough seas, told him he was powerful and a good man.”
I paused, sparing a glance at Roark. His eyes were focused nowhere but on me. I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “I’m sure it seems rather simple, but when I could not show the truth of myself, it felt nice to be accepted for any piece of me, I suppose.”
Roark’s brows tugged together. He faced the river. His reply was slow, gentle. Whenever the Sentry responded—frantic, stiff and stern, or slow and calm—I imagined it like his voice might be. Brisk or soft. In this moment, I imagined it low and kind.
All pieces of you are not so bad.
“I think you nearly gave me a compliment, Sentry.”
You read my words poorly.
I laughed. “I read them perfectly.”
Roark stared over the rail of the bridge. Together, we reveled in silence for a time until he brushed a hand across my arm, drawing my attention.You are more than the scars in your eyes.
On instinct, Roark rubbed the line of puckered flesh on his throat.
Blood heated. I drifted nearer to his side, so our bodies touched from shoulder, hip, to legs. This close, I was surrounded by his strong oaky scent.
“You are more than the scars on your skin.” I shuddered when his eyes dropped to my mouth, unashamed.
Roark tilted his head. Heat and desire pulsed across my body. His mouth, full and parted, drew closer. A need to lean in, to taste him, throbbed low in my belly. I tilted my chin up, and our noses brushed, a whisper of a touch.
The gods-awful ram horn bellowed from the towers of Stonegate.
Roark blinked, his heavy breath heated my lips, then wretchedly slow, he pulled away.The Myrdan caravan has arrived.
31
