Kinked (Elder Races, #6)(35)

Giving up total control to someone else either called for a radical kind of trust and immense self-control, or it called for a certain kind of suicidal craziness.

She didn’t trust Quentin, and she was certain he didn’t trust her.

That only left the other option. She threw herself on the bottom bunk again, stretched her arms over her head and laughed.

The cabin door opened. Quentin walked in, bringing the scents of the forest in along with him. Fresh cold air gusted through the room.

He looked around the cabin and took everything in with one quick, assessing glance. Only then did he look at her, eyes narrowed. He shut the door behind him.

Inane words ghosted through her head.

There you are, so you made it. About time you showed up.

Feel like taking off your shirt again?

She asked, “What are you going to fix us for supper?”

He glowered at her, so apparently his mood had returned to normal. “I fixed supper last night, and you didn’t stay around to eat any of it.”

“That was then.” She yawned. “This is now.”

“You could have fixed something for supper yourself by now,” he pointed out.

“No, I couldn’t. I did a lot today, and I only just got clean.” She put her arms behind her head, watching him under lowered eyelids as he hefted his pack from the corner where she had tossed it and set it on the cabin’s only table. “The bathroom’s all yours.”

His head lifted, and he looked around the cabin again, then at her with his eyebrows raised. She smiled and pointed to the door, and he laughed.

The sound was even more shocking than the sight of his bare chest had been earlier.

Listen to us, she thought. I crack a joke, he laughs. We are actually being halfway civil to each other.

The concept was so strange, she felt as though they were screwing around with some kind of law of physics.

After he dug through the pack, he set containers of food on the table. They both had a few cans of beef stew left, along with some energy bars, and a few dehydrated meals that Aryal would rather be near death’s door before she would touch. After contemplating the selection, he shook his head. “Screw it. This is good enough for now. I’ll hunt tomorrow.”

She grunted and pushed off the bunk. “I’ll heat up a few cans of stew.”

She took two cans from him, and two from her pack. While he disappeared outside, she opened up the cans and set them close to the fire. He came back shortly afterward, with his hair damp and his tanned skin ruddy from washing. He watched her stir the stew and, using the sleeve of her sweater, rotate the cans so that they heated from all sides.

The silence grew weighted. More words occurred to her, things she imagined another female might say.

About last night, I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. If I did, I’m sorry. Are you okay?

But the thing was, she wasn’t sorry for what she had said. She had spoken the truth as she saw it. And she didn’t think she had any power to hurt Quentin’s feelings. For that to happen, he would have to hold her in some regard so that her opinion mattered to him. At the most, she had irritated and infuriated him.

As far as asking if he was okay … She glanced sideways at his unrevealing expression. The strong bones of his face were accentuated in the firelight. The tiny mark she had made on his lower lip had long since healed. He looked as he so often did, self-contained and remote, a citadel with a door of hammered gold guarded by an intricate, magical lock.

What would it take to unlock that door? Some kind of incantation written in a language she didn’t know.

She felt the same impulse to needle him that she always did when she saw that expression. For once she held it back. Instead she carried the hot cans over to the table, two at a time.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She ate her own stew thoughtfully without replying. A second thanks in one day. He might be okay, but he was still acting a little off. If she took herself out of the equation, what was left?

She asked, “Do you know any of the Elves that Ferion sent to guard the passageway?”

“Yes, I do.” He scraped the last of the stew out of one can. “There are four of them, including a young Elf named Linwe, who is Ferion’s niece on his mother’s side.”

The Elven community was a tight-knit one, made even more so by the recent tragedy. She knew how she would feel if any of her friends were missing. She rubbed her face and said, “You know, we don’t have to spend the night here. If you want we can push on until we get to the passageway.”

He lifted his head from his food to look at her. “Push on.”

“Yes.” She widened her eyes at his look of surprise. “You’re worried about them, aren’t you?”

“I’m concerned about them, yes,” he said. He pushed away the empty cans. “But whatever has happened, we need to remember they don’t know that we’re coming. They can’t have any idea that we would wonder about their absence on this end of the passageway. And none of them would casually disobey orders, especially on an assignment such as this. Either you made a mistake and they really are camped at the passageway entrance—”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

He didn’t attempt to argue with her. “Or they must have a compelling reason for not being there. No doubt we’re going to find them on the other side.”