House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(44)

“You came to discuss my scars, Behach ?an?” The faintest hint of humor gilds his words.

“Do I look like I came to discuss your scars?”

“You look like you came to share my shower.”

My cheeks smolder, and I take a minuscule step back even though I don’t actually think the Crow King is about to stalk toward me and pitch me beneath the falling water. “I prefer baths. Not that I came to share one of those.” I look around, discovering a tub made of the same gray stone as everything else inside Lorcan’s mountain.

It’s not oversized but it seems deep. I wonder if the Crow King ever steeps in it. Birds do so enjoy baths. And . . .

What am I going on about?

“Lorcan, you know I have no control over where my body goes.” I tighten my towel some more, regretting not having slung on a bathrobe.

“Is that the excuse you’ll try to feed me if you attempt to visit Antoni’s private quarters?”

I gape at him, first in shock and then in fucking fury. How is he so well informed? Last I heard, I was the only one who could speak into Lorcan’s mind. Or can his people communicate with him when they’re all in bird form?

“When I visit Antoni’s room”—I make sure to insist on the preposition—“I’ll have no need to make excuses since I don’t owe you a play-by-play of my comings and goings.”

The knuckles on the hand he’s splayed on the wall whiten.

Before my next heartbeat, he turns, and although threads of steam still crosshatch the air between us and dark smoke has begun to roil off his naked form, neither do much to hide the full frontal.

After a shocked glimpse of . . . everything, I bounce my gaze back to his clavicle and study it so acutely I could draw it from memory in the steam fogging his mirror. “Would you mind wrapping a towel around yourself?”

“I prefer to air-dry.”

My gaze jerks to his golden stare that twinkles as though he finds my predicament thoroughly amusing.

“Besides, this is my bathing room.” He stalks closer.

I don’t know what soap he’s washed with, but it seems to have deepened his thunderstorm scent. Before I can choke on the male, I start breathing through my mouth.

“Perhaps this is my way of proving I mean you no harm.”

I glare up at him. “Funny, Lore. Who knew demonic kings were endowed with such a developed sense of humor?”

“Usually, it isn’t my sense of humor that women notice when they see me naked or use words like endowed.”

The heat in his bathroom becomes so stifling that I’m suddenly tempted to air-dry.

“As for my scarring, I heal from all wounds, but obsidian leaves a mark upon my skin.” Although his gaze is on my face, he drags his fingers across his chest and arms, mapping out all his silvered scars. He even points to ones below his navel but I don’t trail his index finger, too afraid my gaze may stumble across parts of him that are not scarred.

His chest is riddled with imperfections. I wish I was a fan of perfection. I like perfect noses. Why can’t I prefer perfect torsos? Why must I find each scar mesmerizing?

My fingers ache from how tightly I’m clutching my towel. “Why is the one on your back so much larger than the others?”

“Because it was inflicted to me while I was whole.”

“I don’t—” Did someone try to stake him while I was away? No. That wouldn’t make sense since I’m presently the only person who can handle obsidian. “When?”

“Five centuries ago. When Meriam and Costa stabbed me in the back.”

“How come you let them come so close to you?”

“Because I trusted them, Fallon.” No more soft curves grace his mouth. No more enjoyment kindles his gaze. “He was my most loyal general, and she was like a mother to Bronwen.” He sidesteps me to reach his sink where he picks up a sharp blade and begins to remove the scruff darkening his jaw. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

I study his meticulous movements in the mirror. “And yet, you trust me.”

He tilts his head to reach the bristly hair on the underside of his chin. I’ve never watched a man shave, and it’s oddly fascinating. “Meriam was never my mate.”

My exhale gets wedged on its way out, making me sputter. “Just because I’m your—just because we have a connection—it doesn’t mean I couldn’t wedge a piece of obsidian through your back.”

“You forget that thanks to our connection, I’ve access to all your thoughts.”

“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “You cannot possibly access them all.” Can he?

I can, Behach ?an.

I fold my arms in front of my chest which ticks with annoyed heartbeats. “Then how come I cannot read all your thoughts, huh?”

“You could. If you concentrated.”

“How?”

The slow scrape of the razor against his damp skin makes goosebumps rise along my own skin as though more than our minds were tied.

“Now, why would I teach a girl, who’s entertaining bedding another, to read my thoughts?”

“I’m not entertaining—” I loose a little growl. “I just wanted to see Antoni’s room, which I imagine was Ptolemy Timeus’s, and perhaps spit on one of his throw pillows. In case you weren’t aware, he was a gods-awful man.”