A shriek sounded from the stove, the kettle whistling high enough to fill the cottage with steam and irritation.
I turned my back to him, refusing to look. If I didn’t face him, I didn’t have to admit how his presence steadied me. How safe I always felt when he was near. Even when I wanted to strangle him.
Boots thudded across the floor, the screech dying as he stopped. “I think you might be very interested in what I have to show you.”
“Pass.”
No force on Selvarra could pry me from this bed. Outside would be knives on skin; I refused.
He poured the boiling water, mist coiling into the room like a serpent.
“It’s stabby.”
That got me.
The word pierced straight through my resolve, my ears perking like a starved dog hearing scraps hit the floor.
Damn him.
I could feel his smile, the one that said he knew I would never resist the promise of steel in hand.
“Drink.” His voice softened as he set the cup at the edge of my blanket. “And then get up. You’ve got Elva at noon, and I’d rather not carry you out of here by force.”
He said it like he was givingmeauthority. The irony made me chuckle into the wool. I shoved the blanket down, finally letting the sweet scent of the tea wash over me.
“Fine.” My body stretched, muscles aching, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “Give me five-ish minutes.”
He huffed as he moved away, the sound of metal dropping onto the table beside the mug. Another clink and his boots retreated toward the door.
“Five minutes,” he repeated, latch clicking shut behind him.
No doubt in my mind he started a mental stopwatch in his head the second he said it.
I peeked through the window, the sun finally bursting over every crooked rooftop. The air inside had gotten warmer already, enough for me to brave sprinting to the washroom.
The faucet sputtered on, the water lukewarm at best. My fault. I never could get the weekly ration just right. I hurriedly rinsed my face and teeth, cursing through each freezing splash.
I had no time for leisure—barely enough for soap.
The braid came quick and tight down my scalp, rehearsed and practical, a long-sleeve tunic smoothing down the curls that never stayed put as I brought it over my head.
My leather pants were worn enough where I didn’t have to force them over my hips, and I cinched a thick belt around my waist, ensuring nothing came loose.
The same Verena as always.
That’s who looked back when I passed the mirror, scratched from decades of use. The woman I believed myself to be.
Chestnut hair braided thick from forehead to waist, though a few strands still defied me. I tucked a curl behind my pointed ear, where a gold hoop was pierced through the inner fold.
I must have gotten it after the pub one night, because I have never been able to remember getting it done. The scar across my cheek caught the light, it was barely raised now, yet it marked me all the same.
My reminder that even monsters can bleed.
My only merciful feature might have been my restless eyes. Blue and green, never quite one, but always both.
If not for the stain in the left.
A shadow curling at the edge of the iris, spreading with leisure, claiming silently. Bleeding inward like dusk devouring the sea's horizon.
