“What gave it away?” I tear off a drumstick and dip it in a side of salt and pepper. “The whole chicken in the bowl?”
“Smart-ass.” He dips his spoon into the soup, then snaps his fingers. “Samgaetang. It’s chicken soup with ginseng.”
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t even look up from my chicken. My injured thigh still throbs stubbornly, and I’m ready to heal. But I look up when Ethan places a drumstick in my soup bowl.
“You need it more than I do,” he says.
I swallow a mouthful of chicken with a gulp. A warm cup of barley tea appears on the table when I pound on my chest. I clear my throat and drink some tea. Mostly, I’m trying to blink away the tears welling in my eyes. My mother always gave me one of her drumsticks when we ate samgaetang. Chicken leg is a love language all its own.
“Thanks,” I mumble. I’m being ridiculous. It’s just some chicken. He knows I need the protein to heal.
We finish our meal in silence and push the empty bowls away from us. We didn’t leave even a drop of soup. I lean back on my hands and consider lying down all the way. I haven’t been truly full in days, and I welcome the food coma like a long-lost friend.
Ethan puts the table away in the kitchen and comes to sit beside me. “Why don’t you go to sleep? I’ll keep first watch.”
The sleeping mat folded up in the corner unrolls itself onto the floor. Two pillows and a light blanket flutter down on top of it. I’m suddenly wide awake and very aware of the man ... no, male ... sitting by my side.
“You don’t need to keep watch,” I squeak. “The house is warded. I mean, it can’t keep us hidden forever, but we should be safe spending a few days here.”
I feel his eyes on my face. I stare at a corner of the ceiling. The air becomes saturated with a current of awareness, and I’m afraid he can hear my heart thumping in the small room. My eyes are crossing from the effort to keep myself from meeting his gaze. I can’t look at him. If I do—I sit on my hands to keep from fanning my face with them—I might do something rash.
He grabs a pillow from the bedding and tosses it toward the opposite wall. “Then we better get some sleep.”
I hear the death sizzle of my libido—Ethan’s words a bucket of cold water over the flames of my horniness. My cheeks burning with mortification, I crawl over to the bedding and lift the blanket to slide under it, and I realize that my clothes are still crusty from the dip in the sea.Iam crusty from the dip in the sea.
Thank the fucking gods.
“I’m taking a bath.” I jump to my feet and run into the kitchen. “Good night.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I sigh as I slide into the deep wooden tub filled with steaming-hot water, my sore muscles loosening in the warmth.
When I escaped into the kitchen earlier, the bath was already waiting for me, complete with a towel and a change of clothing laid out on the landing. With no one to teach it the wonders of modern toiletries, the house prepared milky rice water to wash my face with and fragrant orchid oil for my hair.
I warily eye the neat pile of clothes, because I’m almost certain it’s a hanbok. I hide my grimace so as not to hurt the house’s feelings, but the voluminous skirt that ties over the chest and the cropped jeogori shirt have never been my favorite—they’re cumbersome and uncomfortable. But I’ll worry about that later.
Using a muslin cloth, I scrub one arm, then the next. It feels so good to get the grime off my body. As I run the cloth down my neck, my thoughts drift lazily to Ethan. About how good it felt to be in his arms—sitting on his firm thighs, with his chest under my hands. I gasp when the muslin cloth brushes the sensitive tips of my breasts, and desire throbs between my legs. I clench my thighs together and squirm on my ass, my hand sliding down my stomach toward my ...
What thehellam I doing? It’s not that I’m shy about pleasuring myself. It’s the only kind of release I know. But ... it’s the fact that a real live person inspired this ache inside me. I never wanted anyone like this before. Not even close.
And the only thing separating the kitchen from the aforementioned real live person is a wood-slatted door covered with opaque paper.Maybe he’s asleep.Nope. Nuh-uh. I scour my legs with more force than necessary. I refuse to get off thinking about Ethan with him sitting behind a thick piece of hanji no more than ten steps from me.
I dip my head underwater to soak my hair, loosening the gritty bits of the sea. I sit up and dribble some orchid oil into my palm. But when I raise my arms to work it into my hair, my injured shoulder screams. Only a thin raised scar remains of my wound, but I’m still sore as hell. I’m sure climbing down cliffs and sword fighting undead assassins haven’t helped the healing process. I massage the heel of my hand against the shoulder, trying to ease the ache, and grunt in pain.
The kitchen door flings wide open, banging loudly against the wall. Ethan sits directly across from the door, leaning against the opposite wall. And I’m lying in the tub, facing him. His eyes widen when they meet mine and travel down to my ... I squeak and hug my arms around my breasts. He starts and claps a hand over his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Yes, you did,” I say, outraged.
“I did. Yes.” His hand still firmly covers his eyes. “But I didn’tmeanto see.”
I snort. I can’t help it. He looks so freaking adorable. I sink deeper into the tub until the water reaches my chin. “You can uncover your eyes.”
He splits his fingers apart and peeks through them. His lips quirk into a grin as he finally drops his hand. “Why did that door fling open? Was it the wind?”
“No.” I glance around the kitchen with narrowed eyes. “It was the house.”
