Breath ragged, I lurched to my feet and spun to watch Harthon slice into one of the wolves he’d hit with his first daggers. It’d managed to stumble forward, fighting the wound in its chest until he struck it down.
His chest moved with mild exertion as he turned to me, glancing at the bloody rock still gripped in my hand. “Remind me to remove all rocks from the area before angering you.”
I gaped, even as I panted. We’d nearly been mauled to death by a pack of starved wolves, and he chose this moment to joke?
I scanned each animal for signs of life before dropping the rock. “I thought all wolves were dead,” I said in stunned disbelief, beginning to tremble from fading adrenaline.
Harthon covered the ground between us in long strides until he was before me, scanning my form. “Most of them are. A few survive in less populated areas, where there’s more to feed on. I’ve never encountered any here.”
But this time, we had, and I’d been completely unprepared because I was busy spearing him for information when they appeared. I was surprisingly unscathed, but that was only because Harthon shielded me from injury during the fall.
He’d been angered by my interrogation, but he didn’t even hesitate before snagging me from the air and taking the force of our landing.
While I wouldn’t apologize for digging into his past, he deserved my gratitude. “Thank you for catching me.”
Just like at the party, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You don’t need to thank me for that.” The rough pad of his finger lingered on my ear for a moment, and a different tremble, one not born of adrenaline, rolled over me.
“What are we going to do without the horse?”
“He’ll come back. We’re only a short walk from Josenne’s.”
Josenne couldn’t be as feral as the wolves. That was a small comfort, at least.
Harthon picked up my hand, which was splattered with the wolf’s blood, and wiped it clean on the inside of his cloak. “Did Callen go over tackles with you?” he asked.
My brows furrowed as I shook my head.
“Well, he doesn’t need to. Your form was decent.” He gently dug into my nailbeds, where the blood would easily crust. “Thank you for the help.”
I allowed myself a sliver of pride. For once, I had been a help rather than a burden in battle. Granted, that battle had been against animal attackers. My skills against human adversaries were still yet to be determined.
“You probably would have been fine without me.”
“I would have lived, sure, but my face likely wouldn’t be as pretty as it is.”
Prettywas the very last word I’d use to describe anything about the man. Rugged, masculine, and dangerous were more appropriate.
With a straight face, I replied, “It was my concern for your prettiness, not you, that spurred me into action.”
“I thought so.”
My breaths turned shallow as I watched his gaze peruse my face, slowly, almost thoughtfully, before meeting my eyes. It wasn’t the analytical evaluation he’d given me in training. It was different, something far more…tender, maybe. I’d never had a man regard me in that way.
He finds you beautiful.
He suddenly stepped away to retrieve his daggers.
The moment played in my head of its own volition for our short walk to Josenne’s cottage. I couldn’t decipher it, and I wished I couldread the thoughts in his mind and understand my own. The sight of the thatched roof and stone walls amidst the fog stopped my efforts.
From the outside, it appeared as any other village home, the only difference being its complete isolation. I happily allowed Harthon to walk ahead of me as he led us to the wooden slab that was her door. He knocked, and I scanned the woods behind me, briefly entertaining the idea of running away into the fog. It would make for good hiding, that was for certain.
The sound of wood rubbing across stone brought me back to reality. The scent of herbs washed over me as I stared at Josenne, forcing my face to remain neutral even as I internally shrieked.
She was older than Merelda, white hair falling to the ground in stringy clumps, her cheeks so hollow she was nearly a skeleton. Her skin was like weathered leather that’d been beaten by the sun, wrinkles marring every inch—no, wait.
The wrinkle lines were white.
They were scars.
