Reagan seemed surprised as I gave him the crushed purple petals. “It might hide your scent from some creatures, but not Strzygas,” he explained, holding on to the flower. “Who told you about the Velvetshades?”
I suspected he would learn it from her anyway, and she hadn’t struck me as afraid of him. “Gwinifer. I asked her how to protect myself.”
His eyes studied me, close enough now that their blue looked softer, less hardened by a frown. Maybe he wasn’t angry with her.
I glanced at the bowl, eager for him to be done so I could go. To the cell upstairs.
Reagan rinsed the cloth, blood and dirt disappearing into the water. The veins in his hands looked normal, no shimmer beneath the skin.
“What was that, exactly?” I asked. “What happened to the monsters?”
“You have a lot of questions,” Reagan said dryly, guiding my leg back down with a nudge.
As he inched closer, raising the cloth towards my cheek, his eyes met mine, pausing for my reaction. I lifted my brows, granting silent assent.
“It was a charm,” he answered. The scent of earth and snow drifted into my nose. “Not the best choice. Too bloody draining, but light and heat charms work against Strzygas, and I’m used to it.”
Draining. That would explain the weariness, which could be useful. But for what? Trying to make it through that nightmarish forest again?
I sighed.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to fight those things in your animal form?” I asked. “I mean, I saw you hit a tree.” It was a wonder he wasn’t more hurt. Perhaps he had already mended himself.
“I can’t control when I turn,” he answered, not seeming bothered by my question.
“You can’t control your powers?”
His brows twitched. “I don’t,” Reagan said with a sigh. “I don’t shapeshift by choice. It’s triggered by my sentence.”
The mere mention stilled my breath. He studied me then, eyes dark and calculating, as if weighing whether I was worth the effort of explaining further. To my surprise, he went on.
“I’m forced to shift when a...higher entity senses that I’m straying from a virtuous soul. When all that remains in me is lacking, and the only thing left is rage.” His fingers raked along his jaw, the motion more restraint than anything else. “That’s what happened before.”
In the dining room, when he shifted in front of me.
Silence thickened. When he seemed done waiting for me to speak, Reagan returned the cloth to my face. He traced it down my throat with unnerving patience, following every subtle motion as I swallowed.
A sudden awareness prickled my skin. He was still dangerous.
Reagan sucked in a breath. “Did you have a can of poison spray with you?”
The change caught me so off guard that I huffed a laugh.
It shouldn’t have been funny. The lost chance to run should have hit me harder, yet all I felt was exhaustion.
“I didn’t think that would actually work,” I admitted, and at the same time, a coppery taste coated my tongue.
“You opened a cut,” he murmured, dropping the rag into the bowl. “Well, it worked. You might be more dangerous than we thought.”
Halfway through my snort, Reagan’s hand rose to my face, his thumb brushing over my lower lip.
It surprised me enough that I grabbed his wrist, stilling it. Reagan met my narrowed gaze, still letting the pad of his finger linger on my mouth.
I knew he was cleaning the blood. Knew I shouldn’t just hold his wrist but push it away. Yet I didn’t move, as if I were holding it to me.
He glanced at my mouth again, unbothered by my hold, and wet his own lips. Another wave of his earthy scent curled around me.
A knock drew his attention to the door.
