“I remember the attack,” he mumbles. “I don’t remember anything after.”
As if recalling the fight, my Talent swells into my fingertips. I push it back down.Not now.
Feeling feverish, I share the story exactly as I’ve rehearsed it. I tell him that Mother’s a Healer and I’m her apprentice, and we live in the Ironwoods to enable our foraging. All true. I tell him I got to the swamp in time to see him slay the Moragorion. Less true. But I’m hoping that the cocktail of shock, head trauma, and relief will keep him from digging further. For good measure, I add an elaborate lie about building a makeshift stretcher to drag him the half mile home—since a human girl couldn’t carry him as I did. Maybe the story works, because he goes on gaping with that look I can’t decipher. It’s not cold, but it’s not altogether warm, either.
“Was that…” His lips twitch, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Was that before or after you tied me to your bed?”
“It’s notmybed,” I correct him. “It’s my mother’s.”
He smirks. “Ah. An important distinction.”
I fold my arms, leveling the most menacing glare I can muster at him. “Donotmistake my compassion for weakness. I have a weapon, and I know how to use it.”
“I’m sure you do.” His smirk grows, which I can’t understand.
Isn’t he scared? Should I brandish my dagger?
“You think this is funny?” I scowl, brow knitting.
“Far from it,” he says. “I just don’t understand your approach. You rescue me, but now here I am, tied up and apparently in need of rescue. Your motives aren’t exactly straightforward.”
I shift my weight. “I’m not going to allow you to take advantage of me.”
“No taking advantage allowed. Noted.” He flexes his hands. “How long have I been out?”
“Eight days.”
As his fingers regain mobility, they twitch toward his bandaged chest. His brow furrows like Mother’s does when trying to recall a complicated recipe. I practically see the wheels in his head turn. Softly, he asks, “It was bad, wasn’t it?”
“Pretty bad, yes.”
Again, I can’t read his expression. Horror, maybe? Shock? Awe?
“What did you call that thing?” he asks. “The monster?”
My arms prickle. “A Moragorion.”
“That’s what I thought. AMoragorion,” he repeats, with an audible reverence. “I thought they were bedtime stories.”
“Well, they’re real. And you’re lucky to be alive.”
He gazes back at me, and I’m struck with a blistering sense of being perceived. It’s not a good feeling. “Whoareyou?”
The question draws a lump to my throat. Because what kind of answer can I give him? Certainly not the truth.Hello there, I’m Lyria.I’m eighteen years old, I like long walks and cinnamon rolls, and I’m pretty sure my mother thinks I’m a monster….
I counter instead. “Why does it matter?”
“You saved my life, and you won’t even tell me your name?” He looks incredulous.
“I don’t see how it’s relevant.”
For some maddening reason, he chuckles. I’m taken aback by how laughter somehow makes him even more handsome. His face folds with perfect symmetry, and the skin pinches at the corners of his eyes, like butterfly wings.
My cheeks burn. “What were you even doing in the forest, anyway? You’re not from here.”
“What gave it away?”
“Believing Moragorions are bedtime stories, for one.”
