“Usually, it isn’t my sense of humor that women notice when they see me naked or use words likeendowed.”
The heat in his bathroom becomes so stifling thatI’msuddenly tempted to air-dry.
“As for my scarring, I heal from all wounds, but obsidian leaves a mark upon my skin.” Although his gaze is on my face, he drags his fingers across his chest and arms, mapping out all his silvered scars. He even points to ones below his navel but I don’t trail his index finger, too afraid my gaze may stumble across parts of him that are not scarred.
His chest is riddled with imperfections. I wish I was a fan of perfection. I like perfect noses. Why can’t I prefer perfect torsos? Why must I find each scar mesmerizing?
My fingers ache from how tightly I’m clutching my towel. “Why is the one on your back so much larger than the others?”
“Because it was inflicted to me while I was whole.”
“I don’t—” Did someone try to stake him while I was away? No. That wouldn’t make sense since I’m presently the only person who can handle obsidian. “When?”
“Five centuries ago. When Meriam and Costa stabbed me in the back.”
“How come you let them come so close to you?”
“Because I trusted them, Fallon.” No more soft curves grace his mouth. No more enjoyment kindles his gaze. “He was my most loyal general, and she was like a mother to Bronwen.” He sidesteps me to reach his sink where he picks up a sharp blade and begins to remove the scruff darkening his jaw. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
I study his meticulous movements in the mirror. “And yet, you trust me.”
He tilts his head to reach the bristly hair on the underside of his chin. I’ve never watched a man shave, and it’s oddly fascinating. “Meriam was never my mate.”
My exhale gets wedged on its way out, making me sputter. “Just because I’m your—just because we have a connection—it doesn’t mean I couldn’t wedge a piece of obsidian through your back.”
“You forget that thanks to our connection, I’ve access to all your thoughts.”
“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “You cannot possibly access themall.”Can he?
I can, Behach Éan.
I fold my arms in front of my chest which ticks with annoyed heartbeats. “Then how come I cannot readallyourthoughts, huh?”
“You could. If you concentrated.”
“How?”
The slow scrape of the razor against his damp skin makes goosebumps rise along my own skin as though more than our minds were tied.
“Now, why would I teach a girl, who’s entertaining bedding another, to read my thoughts?”
“I’m not entertaining—” I loose a little growl. “I just wanted to see Antoni’s room, which I imagine was Ptolemy Timeus’s, and perhaps spit on one of his throw pillows. In case you weren’t aware, he was a gods-awful man.”
The softest snort escapes Lorcan. “You’re an odd little creature, Fallon Báeinach.”
Although it’s said with affection, it makes my hackles rise. “I’m not a creature. I’m a woman, Lorcan Reebyaw. If anyone’s a creature, it’s you.”
The corners of his mouth cant, and his eyes begin to smolder again. And then his big body begins to rattle as though a chill has enveloped his skin, but when I hunt for goosebumps, I find none. At least, none on him. There are plenty on me.
“I heard the marquess disappeared.” I avert my gaze because, even with a foggy mirror between us, the intensity of the Crow King is entirely too disarming.
Water splashes Lorcan’s blade. When the metal is clean, he sets it down beside his sink. “Did he? How tragic.”
“You wouldn’t have anything to do with his disappearance?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Fallon?” Even though my gaze is locked on the little puddle forming around the shiny razor, I catch his fingers lifting to his damp locks as he turns toward me.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, now would I?”
