“That smells amazing.”
His voice startles me. He stands at the wall, unsteady yet upright.
“You shouldn’t be up,” I chastise, the words too sharp. My hands are still damp when I reach him, the scent of sage clinging to my skin.
“I’ll be fine. The worst has passed.” He crosses the room with care, lowering himself into the nearest chair, measured but steady.
His subtle smirk is met with my own. Our unspoken banter fills the intimate space between us as I stand uneasily while he takes a seat.
Accepting there’s no point in scolding him further, I return to preparing the meal. Unease stirs in me—perhaps more than unease—as I grow keenly aware of his gaze following me from kitchen to hearth and back again. Why does he watch me so?
It’s as if he can read my thoughts when his eyes fall on the saddle I moved near the door.
“Thank you for taking care of Bracken for me. I trust he is well.”
How can one voice carry such commanding power and such quiet gratitude at once? It takes me longer than I care to admit to reply, transfixed by the contradiction seated across the room.
“It’s my pleasure.” The words are not mere courtesy but truth. “Tomorrow I can take him for a walk in the nearby glade. There’s grazing here, but the sweet grass and clover might feel like a feast for him.”
The smile that follows sends a shiver through me.
“Indeed it will.” Then a contemplative pause. “You should ride him.” The strength in his voice softens. “He won’t stay content long—he’s a horse bred for war, not idle meandering. Take him farther. He’ll carry you well.”
I ladle hot stew into two bowls, setting one before him. “If he is willing, I’ll take him tomorrow. I only hope this will suffice—a humble stew from the cellar. No rabbit snared, and with much else to tend, it’s the best I can manage.”
He stills, spoon poised, eyes catching mine. “You’ve managed far more than I deserve. This is a gift.”
And it must be so, for he leaves nothing behind, leaning back sated, a rare peace softening his features.
When the meal is done, I fetch water and move to his side, hands steady though my chest is not. I unwind the bandage, easing the cloth free. The wound has knitted but slowly; bruising still shadows his ribs.
“How does it feel?” I ask quietly.
“Better.” His jaw tightens at my touch. “I’ll bear it.”
I press the cloth against him, watching every flicker of pain. My own voice betrays me instead—the question slipping free before I can stop it. “How much longer will you stay?”
He endures the sting as I clip away stitches, knuckles white on the chair’s edge. A warrior used to pain, yet still undone by touch.
“With my armor cast aside, no men at my side, and no knowledge of what still hunts me…” He pauses, weighing it, and my heart stalls with him. “It would be wise to remain until I’m nearer full strength.”
I keep my eyes fixed on tending the wound, hiding the smile I can’t quite suppress.
“If that’s not too much an imposition,” he says, voice lower now, leaning closer. His breath brushes across my cheek, my pulse stumbling, every nerve leaning toward him even as I try to retreat.
I pull back too quickly. “Of course,” I stammer. “Your safety is what matters.” My hands tremble as I gather the cloths, plunging them into the basin. The rippling water, meant to calm me, only sharpens the echo of his nearness.
I busy myself with evening rituals: tidying, stirring the hearth, stacking wood. Small acts—usually steadying—feel strange beneath the weight of his watch. When I step outside to tend Bracken, I feel him at the threshold—silent, observing as I murmur soft words to the horse. Though dusk settles and crisp night air chills my skin, a searing rush burns through me beneath his gaze. My pulse quickens simply knowing his eyes are on me.
Inside, the cottage feels smaller. I crouch to bank the fire, shifting coals, when I turn and find him nearer than I realize, kneeling to lift a fallen log. Our hands brush, skin against skin—the sound of my own breath, louder than the crackle of the flame, reveals morethan I would like.
“You should be in bed, not following me,” I say, sharper than I intended. “You need to regain your strength.”
He rises slowly, his height filling the room, and though his movements still carry the stiffness of mending injury, there’s nothing weak in the way he looks at me.
“We both should.” The curve of his mouth—half a smile, half invitation—is matched by the hand that reaches toward me.
I linger at the hearth a heartbeat longer, staring into the dying glow as if it can give me courage. Then I cross to the bedchamber, each step torn between reason and want.
