Rey was unmoved by their reaction. “We will build a trap,” he said, which led to days spent engineering it. The contraption he settled on was long and narrow, with dual snares that caused a panel to slide down, trapping the creature in place. Rey and Vig built the trap in a narrow valley backing Vig’s farm and would bait it with a fresh sheep carcass. Armed with grit and a plan, Rey was eager for the day the serpent would slither out of its nest.
This time, he’d be ready.
“Take the bed, Galtung,”Silla implored. “There’s room enough for both of us.” Perhaps it was Vig and Runný’s influence, but she’d taken to calling him by his last name in the past few days. And Rey had decided he liked it.
He tried not to look but was pulled into her dark gaze. The candle she held cast flickering light on her cheeks—rosy from a day spent training with Harpa. Rey couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride.
“I expressed!” Silla had exclaimed when he’d arrived to fetch her from Harpa’s. She’d rushed at him, flinging her arms around him. “I did it!”
And Rey had celebrated it as though it had been his own victory. She’d fought so hard for this moment.
After her breakdown in the stables, everything had changed. Grief and guilt persisted in her eyes, but there was a lightness to Silla which had not been there before. She dedicated herself all day long to his grandmother’s Galdra training, then poured herself into sparring with him. Unfortunately, Rey’s body seemed to take her nearness to mean something altogether different, and he had taken to bathing in the glacial waters of the stream behind the stables afterward.
And Vig’s teasing had turned relentless. “Gods, I can’t take any more of these long, pining looks,” he’d exclaimed, exasperated one day.
“There’s no pining, Twig Arms.”
“You actually believe that, don’t you?” Vig had replied, shaking his head. “Just tell her you want her to stroke your axe.”
“Shut your mouth, Vig, or I’ll do it for you.”
But Vig was only getting started. “Tell her you want to raid her shores.”
Rey’s glower deepened.
“That you wish to plunder her womanly cavern with your manly serpent.”
At that, Rey tackled his friend, forcing his mouth shut. “Stop stirring the pot, Twig Arms.”
“Strong Arms,” Vig had said, words smothered by Rey’s fist.
But Vig’s teasing had only raised Rey’s hackles. He needed to keep a distance between them, for himself, and for her. He was better than Jonas. More masterful of his own desires.
“We shared a tent,” Silla now reminded him. “Just get in the damn bed!”
“I don’t share,” was Rey’s low reply. Distance was good. Distance wasnecessary.
With a huff she retreated to her bed with the candle, flinging the curtain shut. He watched her silhouette as she set the candle down. Peeled off her tunic. Rey’s skin heated, and he could not look away. His eyes traced the contours of that silhouette—the slope of her neck and curve of her breast. She’d picked up a comb and was working it through her curls.
How simple it would be to walk to the curtain. Pull it aside. Take the comb from her hand and push her back onto the furs…
Rey’s body was as tense as before a battle and aching with need. Gritting his teeth, he fetched his soap and a linen to dry off with.
“I’m bathing!” he barked and strode out into the night.Anothercold bath for him.
Rey was the cleanest he’d ever been.
He was deep in slumber—arare feat on the bench which currently waged war with his spine—when someone pounded on the door. Logic pierced through sleep’s veil, and he was on his feet in an instant, answering the door in only his breeches.
“Vig?” he mumbled, rubbing his face.
“Another boy,” was Vig’s brisk reply. “Ketill’s just told me. Up near Archer’s Point.”
Rey blinked. “But it’s only been six days.”
“Perhaps our serpent can’t count.”
Rey reached for his tunic. Was just pulling it over his head when Silla stumbled out from behind the curtain. Her hair was wild, and she was dressed in naught but a tunic.
