The Grace Year(68)

“Are you terrible?”

“Probably.” I smile as I sink further into the water.

“Who gave you a veil?” he asks.

The question catches me by surprise. “A very foolish boy.” I study him through the gap in the pelts, noticing the way he’s clenching his jaw. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“You didn’t think anyone would be crazy enough to give me a veil?” I say, twisting the water out of my hair.

“I didn’t say that,” he replies, staring intently into the waning fire.

“His name’s Michael,” I say as I comb through my hair. “Michael Welk. His father owns the apothecary. He’ll be taking over as head of the council.”

“You say this like it’s a bad thing.” He peers back at me. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” I say as I start to weave the ribbon into my braid. “He’s been my best friend since we were kids. That’s why I thought he understood. He knew I didn’t want to be a wife. He knew about the dreams. When he lifted my veil, I wanted to punch him in the face. And then he had the nerve to tell me that he’s always loved me … that I didn’t have to change for him.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he wants to help you.” He pokes at the logs. “It sounds like he could’ve turned you in at any point for having the dreams, but he chose to protect you. He sounds like a decent man.”

I tie off the braid and glare at him through the gap. “Whose side are you on?”

“My own.” He meets my gaze. “Always my own.” He goes back to the hearth, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere. “Maybe you have an opportunity to change things. Maybe you can help the women of the outskirts, too. Like the usurper.”

“You know about the usurper?” I jump out of the bath, pulling on my chemise. “Have you seen her?” I join him by the smoldering remains of the fire.

“No.” He takes me in, his gaze lingering. “But I hear they meet with her on the border, in a hidden clearing. They stand together in a circle holding hands, talking late into the night.”

“Who told you that?”

He reaches out to catch a drop of water dripping from the end of my braid. “Rachelle…,” he says, glancing up at me through his dark lashes. “A girl I know.”

“Oh,” I reply, which comes off snippier than I intended. “Is that … do you have a … a someone back home?” I ask, tripping over my own words.

He looks at me curiously. “We’re hunters. We live a nomadic lifestyle. We’re not allowed to form attachments … to spread our bastard seed.”

I can’t stop myself from looking down at his trousers. “So, you’re like the guards, then?”

“No.” He shifts his weight at the thought. “I’m all … intact.”

“So you’ve never…”

“Of course I have,” he says with a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “Who else do you think the women practice on?”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to breed.”

“There are plenty of other ways to be with a woman. Besides, they know their bodies. They know when they’re fertile.”

A searing heat takes over my face. I’m not sure why it bothers me. The girls in the county do the same in the meadow when trying to snare a husband. But this feels different. For some reason, I can’t stop picturing the girl in Gertie’s lithograph. Is that what he’s used to? What it’s like for them?

“We get to go home for a few days every year, between hunting seasons, but I’ll be going home to see my mother, my sisters. So the answer is no.” He looks at me intently, and my breath seems to catch in my throat. “There’s no one special waiting for me back home.”

I pretend to be interested in the stitching of my chemise, anything to divert my attention from the lawlessness I feel racing through my blood, but even the stitching reminds me of his hands, the fact that he sewed this back together for me to make me feel more at ease. I keep reminding myself that the only reason he didn’t kill me is because of the deal he made with my father, but the why doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe it’s the close quarters, the fact that he saved me more times than I can count, or maybe it’s forbidden fruit that’s making me feel this way, but I don’t think about getting out of here anymore. I don’t think about going home. I think about what it would feel like … the touch of his lips … his skin against mine.

A huge gust of air blows through the chimney, sending a whoosh of blazing embers shooting toward us. Ryker scoops me up in his arms, flinging me onto the bed.

As he snuffs out the sparks on my skin, I don’t scream out in pain. I don’t make a sound. The only thing I feel right now is the weight of his body leaning against mine.

“Easy now,” he says as he lifts a stray damp strand of hair from my collarbone, gently blowing on my skin. I think he’s trying to cool me down, but it only seems to fan something deeper inside of me. It’s a different kind of heat. One that I don’t know how to quell. One that I’m not even sure I want to.

Dipping a cloth in a jar of aloe water, he runs it over the tiny burn marks on my neck, across my collarbone. I’m staring up at him, getting lost in the bones of his face, when he stops short of the lace edging of my chemise; a drop of water trails down my chest. There’s a weighted pause.