Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(68)
“When I woke, I felt like I’d been chewed up and spat out.” His words are rough but he pushes them out, determined, even though it seems like he’s in pain. “There was blood on my clothes and in the dirt, and my shirt was shredded. I’d seen enough death to know that much blood loss would kill me, so I tried to find my wounds and cover them.”
His boot stops its restless gouging in the dirt. “All that blood, Britt, and there were no scratches or cuts anywhere. It was the strangest thing. Beneath all of it, I had scars . . . like the attack had happened months before, not moments.”
His fingers slide across my cheek and I jolt, startled by his touch because I’m so lost in what he’s saying.
“I found you at my side, pale and cold.” He whispers cracked words. His hand gently cradles my cheek, and his eyes glisten as they peer into mine. “Your heartbeat . . . It was so slow, I was certain you wouldn’t . . .”
Siron nudges Cohen with his nose until his master relents, patting the beast. When the horse moves away, Cohen continues. “I carried you home. Your father called for a healer. She asked too many questions, though. I told the healer you were attacked by a mountain cat. Only you had no wounds or gashes or anything, while I had this.” He points to his face. “Nothing sounded believable. So Saul made up a tale that we’d been out in the woods earlier and crossed paths with a mountain cat. He said I was confused about the attack date. I had jumped in front of the cat to save you, but in the scuffle you fell hard. Saul told the healer we sent for her because you’d taken a turn for the worse.”
He blows out a breath, eyes searching the sky, the ground, then my face.
“That doesn’t explain why my father asked you to go away.”
“Don’t you see? You healed me, Britta. Completely.” His arms fly out to his sides, palms facing forward, stretching his tunic across his torso, as he retreats a couple steps. “If I stayed, you’d want to know what happened. I wanted to tell you, only Saul forbade me because it was too dangerous for you. You know what happens to Channelers. If word got out and someone accused you, you’d have been thrown in the pillory at the very least, if not tortured and hung.”
It’s infuriating to know Papa asked my friend—?my only friend—?to leave me, and yet his argument makes sense. It seems every week there is a new woman shackled in the market square. Still, bitterness coats my tongue as I ask, “How long was he going to keep the truth from me?”
“I don’t know. He said it was better, no, safer, for you not to know.”
“And so you simply left?”
He lets out a harsh scoff of a laugh. “Simply? There was nothing simple about my decision. I couldn’t sleep or eat for days. I didn’t want to leave. But I”—?his chin drops and his eyes crinkle together—?“I couldn’t lie to you. In the end it was easier to leave.”
I want to believe what he’s saying, except I’m too incensed, too hurt from the confidences kept behind my back to retreat. I make a sour face. “Easier? Is it easier to lie to me from far away?”
The tiniest frown tugs the corners of his mouth down and then disappears when he lets out a frustrated growl. “Yes, you could say that.”
A small prick of pain accompanies his candid answer.
“People notice oddities in Malam. Someone would’ve asked questions about the attack. With me still in Brentyn, there were more opportunities for people to see us together and speculate. If I was out of the scene, it would be more likely that the town gossips would forget. I had to leave.”
“You didn’t have to leave,” I say with weak conviction. A gust kicks through the trees, scattering pods and leaves around us, and infusing the air with an earthy, woodsy tang. In the past, the scent of the outdoors brought quietness to mind when my thoughts were turbulent. Today it does little to soothe the parts of me that are ravaged inside. I tuck a freed hair back into my braid and wait for him to respond.
“Yes, I did. I couldn't stay near you. You are . . .” He pauses, mulls over his thoughts, and then adds, “Noticeable.”
I roll my eyes.
“It’s true. You’ve always thought the townsfolk pay you no attention, but you’re wrong. They watch you because you’re different.” I cringe and he waves a hand. “When the healer threatened to talk, Saul knew I had to leave town to lessen the chance of gossip. You must know, I’d do anything to keep you safe.” Cohen steps around my side to rub Siron’s nose. “Do you remember the night I met you in the woods?”
It was the first time I’d seen him since the accident and the only time he visited before he left. Of course I remember. Long after Papa had retired for the night, an invisible tug pulled me from bed and out of the cabin. Cohen was waiting in the trees. When I woke earlier that day, Papa explained how Cohen had risked his life to save me. I accepted Papa’s story easily.
Embarrassment and shame kept me from confessing my memory loss.
The need to touch Cohen, to verify he was all right, coursed through me until I reached out and placed my hand on his arm. On contact, everything in me relaxed.
That night was the first time I confessed my feelings to Cohen.
He pulled away, saying he had to leave and that he’d return the next day.
Only he never did.
I’ve relived the memory countless times, searching for a missing clue to make sense of why he’d go away without saying goodbye. All this time, I believed he was angry with me for being the cause of his pain, his new disfigurement. And wondering if my admission of caring for him actually scared him off.