She doesn’t know a lot of things.
“Well, all the Vruks in the cavern are being born into a world where dog eats dog. Those desperate enough to escape the pit of impending doom make the leap out into the gloom where they’re swiftly disposed of. I doubt it came from there. If anything, that cavern is keeping a large pack of Irilak busy that would otherwise be preying on less favorable things. Like people.”
She flinches, cutting me a harsh look, boasting those protective instincts that coax a certain part of me into a rumbling, ravenous stir. “They’re not all like that …”
Yes, they are.
I don’t push it. Let her think the best of her little shadow friend. He won’t hurt her, and everybody at the castle knows he won’t move past my scent line. He won’t hurt Baze because of the ring he wears—not that he’s ever believed it or been willing to test the theory.
Orlaith feeds the thing, and I’ve never had the heart to tell her, but I top it up so it’s not interested in preying on nearby village folk. An Irilak can’t survive on a single mouse every few days, though I find it endearing that she believes otherwise.
I stir the stew again, lifting some of the meat to see it’s beginning to pull apart.
“What happened to your chest?”
I raise a brow.
Her cheeks redden. “The marks where your tattoos used to be. N-not the …”
She trails off as I look down at the wounds scribed across my skin, like somebody picked at the runes until the edges peeled up, allowing them to rip free like hangnails. Felt a bit like that when they came up, too, but on a much larger, more painful scale.
“Broke something,” I say, turning my attention back to the stew.
Now I just have to find a way to break the rest of them.
“It looks painful.”
I shrug.
Pain is watching her seed blink out, feeling it try to uproot from my soul in agonizing drags. Pain is feeling like every second is one second closer to losing her.
Painis feeling like she couldn’t give a fuck about being lost.
The marks are bug bites in comparison.
“It looks like it’ll scar.”
I lift my head, catching her gaze, flames bouncing off the lilac depths. “Perhaps I’m sick of hiding the scars?”
She doesn’t last more than a second before she flicks her attention back to the fire. She could stab me through the heart again and it wouldn’t hurt as much.
I stir the pot, feeling her warm, prickly perusal brush upon my chest in small, nipping increments, like she’s stealing peeks. “Can I … make a salve for it?”
I look up.
There’s something in her eyes—the slightest speckle of light that almost fucking breaks me. Like a star bursting to life.
It’s not going to scar. Unlike the mark she made, the wounds will heal. Eventually. But I’ll let her paint me in mashed-up herbs if it gets me another one of those glimmers.
Her cheeks are flushed again as she hurries on. “There are some herbs in the cabin. I think I saw some Prunella Vulgaris hanging by the door. It’s really good for a lot of things. I know you’re not really interested in this stuff, but I just thought … well …”
It’s not that I’m not interested. Rai had similar interests—it’s just easier not to look.
“Sure, Milaje. Knock yourself out.”
Her eyes almost bug out of her head, and she bounds to her feet so fast you’d think her ass was on fire. “Prepare to have your mind blown. I’m going to make the best damn salve you’ve ever used.”
Not difficult to achieve since I’ve never used one before.
