Page 31 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

I still remember my mother’s words: Don’t let anyone see what you can do, Luna. Don’t let anyone know what you are. If they come, kill them or run.

I’d never stopped hiding.

Rowan’s apparent worry about them only reinforced that message and made slightly less wary about him.

When I headed back inside, Muffin immediately came scrambling back home after me, long body bounding across the ground, snout covered in blood.

Gross. He had the soul of a lethal predator but the look of something you wanted to snuggle.

I moved as silently as possible through the cabin while Muffin scrambled onto the countertop, eyeing the bed as he licked off the gore covering his furry face .

Rowan shifted, the rasp of wool and soft groan the first signs he was awake. When I’d checked on him during the night, his fever had broken, so I was hopeful for his recovery today. He watched me silently for a few minutes, eyes half-lidded, expression impossible to read. Exhaustion still clung to him in the dark shadows of his face.

I could still feel his eyes on me as I dropped my bundle of greens and harvesting knife on the worktable, metal clanging loudly in the silence. It wasn’t a hungry stare or active judgment, more a curious, gentle assessment. I usually hated being noticed, but this didn’t feel the same as when others watched me.

How is this going to end, Luna?

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, voice a gravelly whisper.

“Yes.” A partial truth. I had rested. Sleep was touch-and-go.

He didn’t argue, though something dangerously close to concern lingered in the air between us. I didn’t look at him, just kept at my work. If I did, I might see it written on his face, and I wasn’t sure how to handle softness from another person anymore.

Muffin’s growl was the only warning before—

BAM BAM BAM.

I jumped, and every muscle in my body tensed, almost making me cut myself with my harvesting knife. Someone was hammering on the door hard enough to vibrate the wood with each blow.

I started toward the door, but the swift rustling of sheets and small surge of magic made me stop and turn to my patient.

“Do you know who that is?” Rowan had pushed himself upright, breathing through the pain, holding a—

Holy gods, he was holding a very sharp, very wicked-looking Nocthel sword.

Up to this point, I’d only seen his amorphous shadows, never anything so sharply defined, so perfectly real. Reading about this sort of magic was one thing, but seeing it in real life was another.

From his reaction, trouble was after him. I’d have to check the wards tomorrow to make certain it didn’t find us.

I peeked through the window’s slats. When I recognized the person standing there, my relief warred with my annoyance. “No one important. I hope you didn’t just rip the stitches I put in last night!”

Rowan afforded me the courtesy of looking guilty. Only the night before, he’d refused my healing with infuriating resolve, claiming I needed the rest. And so his freshly regrown skin had surrendered to needle and thread. Seventy-two stitches, and not a single sound of complaint.

Pushing down the million questions I wanted to ask him about being a Nocthel, I wiped my hands on my apron and ordered, “Stay in bed, and put that away!”

Rowan smiled, his expression making it clear he had no intention of following my orders. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I’d never given him my father’s old clothes. His nakedness, at least, should solve today’s stubbornness.

I opened the door a crack.

Elbort’s face was red with frustration and cold. His forearm was wrapped in a crude bandage; he reeked of muck and sweat.

“Took your time answering,” he growled, stepping closer and thrusting his arm in my direction even though I hadn’t allowed him entry. “It’s bad. Fix it.”

No greeting. He didn’t even ask, just expected it as his due.

“Good morning to you too, Elbort,” I said flatly. “What happened?”

He held out the sloppy strip of burlap, already soaked through with blood. “Split my arm open on one of the pens.”