A gentle, hushed, quiet morning.
It was still raining, though it wasn’t as harsh or violent as it’d been the night before. More like a heavy drizzle that coated the air with a white, almost silvery mist, dense like fog.
In sleep, she’d pressed closer to Cruxan. She blinked, her eyelashes fluttering against his upper shoulder, her head wedged in that space by the thick column of his neck. Their fronts were pressed together, her arms at her sides. Her front was warm, but her legs were cold, from the pants he still wore. It took her a moment to realize their legs were threaded together.
Just like last night, her wariness, her fear returned. And even though she was warm—so warm—she hesitantly pulled her head back to peer up at his face.
His blue eyes were open and watching her, though he didn’t move a single muscle.
Crystal was at a loss for words. But true tohisword, Cruxan’s eyes never left her own. There was something different about his gaze that morning. Though why…well, Crystal wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know.
“I, um,” her voice was scratchy and husky from the cold, from the lack of sleep, and from nerves, “want to get dressed now.”
It made her a little ashamed that the first words out of her mouth weren’t a thank you.
He nodded and, closing his eyes, he unwrapped his body from hers and turned. His back was to her, giving her the privacy and space she desperately craved. She immediately reached for her soaked clothes. She didn’t relish putting them back on, especially since the drizzle began to coat her skin and wet hair, especially when there was still a chill in the air.
What she wouldn’t give for dry clothes and a steaming cup of hot chocolate right about then…
She put on her tunic first, the thin, light material clinging to her body. When her hands skimmed over Cruxan’s tunic, guilt ate at her and she said, “You should have your shirt back. You must be cold.”
“Nix, female,” he murmured, his back still to her. “You wear it.”
“But—”
“Do not worry about me.”
Crystal sighed but then hefted his shirt over her head, though it felt like it weighed twenty pounds wet. Wrinkling her nose as she felt the cool, unpleasant wetness over her skin, she said, “Okay, I’m done.”
Cruxan turned to look at her, his back muscles bunching and flexing under his skin as he did so. She didn’t want to think about last night, didn’t want to think about the hours and hours where she’d laid naked beside him, pressed against him.
But it seemed virtually impossible not to…not when those blue eyes were on her.
She hadn’t been naked with a man…not since Leo. A part of her had missed it. The warmth of flesh, the feeling of another body next to her own, the weight of one.
An awkward silence stretched between them before Cruxan broke it. “How do you feel this morning?”
Truthfully, she felt exhausted. She felt sore. Not just from their trek the day before, but from all the shivering and tensing her muscles last night from the cold.
“I’m fine,” she told him, giving him a tiny smile that felt as awkward as it no doubt appeared.
“Are you hungry?” he asked next.
Mist swirled behind him, the small gust of sudden wind making it dance.
Her eyes went to the remains of their fire, to the stone where they’d cooked the meat. Cruxan had her eat it all, though she’d protested many times, which had fallen on deaf ears. She’d been hungry enough to eat it all, but she didn’t wanthimto suffer for it.
He’s been kind to me, she realized suddenly. He tended to her cut, he knew she’d been tired from their trek yesterday, he made sure she was fed…he made sure she was warm. At his expense.
Shame made her cheeks heat. She shook her head in answer to his question and then said quietly, “Thank you.” She swallowed before meeting his gaze. “You’ve been generous and kind…and I feel that I’ve been cold to you.” Her lips quirked a little. “Both literally and figuratively, perhaps.”
He was still watching her in a way that made her spine tingle with awareness.
“Who was it that hurt you, female?”
The question made her breath escape her.
“What?” she whispered and she felt like there was an imaginary hand at her throat.
