“The woman who got the bark for me is a shifterfae,” I tell her. “They don’t use black bark themselves. They know their fertile cycles from scent alone. She may have gotten the wrong tree, but she couldn’t scent any fertility on me after Sebastian and I spent the night together.”
Maya nods. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, then. It sounds like they have a strong sense of smell.” She widens her eyes. “Especially since they can scent magic. That’s incredible.”
Pregnant. The word sits in my mind like a stone dropped into still water. Surely not. Surely the goddess would not be that cruel to me.
My hand drifts to my belly before I realize what I’m doing. My palm rests flat against the fabric of my tunic, just below my navel. There is nothing different. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I pull my hand away and shake my head.
I’m sure I would know.
I trust Terra’s nose more than I trust black bark tea.
I pick up the cup and pour the tea out into the washbasin. Then I rinse it and put it upside down on the ledge.
I won’t give it anymore thought. There is much to do.
43
Sebastian
I close the cabin door behind me and stand on the porch for a moment.
That meeting went better than I could have hoped, and yet I feel hollow inside. I wish Isla would hear me out. That she would give me a chance to explain. Part of me understands why she can’t. I accused her of the worst kind of treachery.
I was wrong.
I need to apologize, to try to make it right.
I can’t do that if she won’t let me.
I walk down the porch steps. It’s warmer in the valley than in the rest of the deadlands. The sun almost gets through here.
I heave a sigh as my mind goes back to Isla. I wish it wouldn’t, but it won’t stop. She insists on going back to the Shifter Court, and there is nothing I can do about it. Nothing I can say to change her mind.
The sound of wood being split fills the valley, so I go over to behind the barn. Damon is already hard at work. The woodpile is larger than I expected.
I pick up a nearby ax, feeling the worn wood of the handle against my palms. Then I plant my feet, raise the blade over my head, and bring it down hard on one of the stumps.
The stump splits with a satisfying crack.
I swing again. And again. Until my muscles burn, and sweat beads on my forehead.
Why won’t she let me explain? Why won’t she give me even a single moment to ask for her forgiveness? I know I was wrong. I know it with every fiber of my being. But knowing it means nothing if she won’t let me say it.
I bring the ax down with particular force, splitting a thick piece of wood clean in two.
“We’ll have the whole winter’s supply done before midday at that pace,” Damon says.
I stop and turn.
Damon stands a few paces away, arms folded across his chest. I hadn’t heard him stop what he was doing. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts.
“It’s helping clear my head,” I say, my voice rough.
“I can see that.” He walks toward the woodpile, pulls his tunic over his head, and tosses it onto a nearby log. “It’s getting hot.”
The Icefae King is built like a warrior. Thick shoulders. Arms corded with muscle. A body made for battle.
