Fire and Bone (Otherborn #1)(17)

I pull away, unsure how to feel about him touching me.

He gives me a small smirk and turns, saying over his shoulder as he heads for the east bungalow, “I’ll be next door if you need anything. And I’ll be fetching you for our first lesson in four hours.”





EIGHT

SAGE

Sleep. It’s barely happening. There was a moment of stillness, when the warmth and comfort of my new surroundings wrapped around me, the poolside waterfall lulling me with its calming rhythm, allowing me to nearly drift off. But then I remembered the last time I fell asleep and woke to three guys gawking at me. And the way I was trapped. And lied to. My whole life.

Eventually, I sit up and scan my new living quarters, which I didn’t bother to look at when I walked in a few hours earlier. I just made a beeline to the couch and collapsed on it, curling myself into the throw blanket tossed over the back.

Now I notice that the couch is purple velvet, soft against my skin. The blanket I was wrapped up in is a pale blue angora, and the throw pillow I rested my head on is delicately embroidered, fit for a queen; it was obviously made by hand. I run a finger over the faded threads and marvel at the detail of the design. Like something out of one of those ancient manuscripts I saw on our school field trip to the museum last year.

I dozed off on that thing. I probably drooled on it.

On the wall across from the couch, where you’d expect a TV, there’s a large painting of a forest with the sun setting behind it—it looks old, some of the paint cracking. The rug that’s covering the dark wood floor under my feet is white and furry. I really hope it wasn’t ever hopping around or anything.

This must be the living room. To my left is the front door; to my right is what looks like a small kitchen nook and two other doors. I assume one of them leads to a bedroom.

I stand and wander over to the closest one, cracking it open. A bathroom. It’s old-fashioned in style, but the fixtures look new. I move to the other door and peek inside.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s like something out of a dream, where a princess would live. A large canopy bed sits in the center, draped with sheer yellow fabric and covered with a ton of pillows. There’s a large window rimmed by built-in bookshelves—look at all those books!—and a puffy yellow chair set off to the side just so. The floor is covered in more fur rugs. A desk and more bookshelves are set into the wall on the other side of the bed, and a hand-painted screen with knotted designs is to my left, in front of what looks like another door. I’m assuming that’s the closet.

I’d go look inside, but I don’t think I can take in any more lavish surprises right now. I feel so out of place, like my surroundings just highlight how lost I am. This can’t possibly be where I belong.

My gaze trails back to the bed. All those pillows. I think of the orange plastic chairs I slept in several nights last week, and I step closer. I reach out and run my palm over the puffy surface of the comforter. It feels like satin, but it looks like simple cotton. I marvel at the sensation of it against my skin, and before I know it I’m climbing up and crawling over the thing, falling into the mountain of pillows until I’m cradled by them.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this comfortable in my entire life.

This. This is heaven.

I close my eyes, and the weight of the last twelve hours lifts from my mind for a fleeting moment. Just long enough for me to fall asleep.



I try to hide my shivering as I wait before the altar, in my position as the Bonding begins. Around me, shadows dance over the cairn walls from the restless flames licking up the ram’s body—the sacrifice on the pyre behind me—and the smell of sweat and burnt flesh smother the smoky air.

The King of Ravens paints an alarming image, standing almost naked across from me on the other side of the blood circle. He wears the corona radiata, the golden laurel-leafed crown, on his head of onyx hair. His short beard is neatly trimmed, combed with lavender oil for the ceremony. His sharp silver eyes study me beneath a heavy brow.

I try not to think about the past. Or future. I try not to think about what those hard hands will feel like on my skin when he seals this Bond.

I study the stone floor rather than look in those metallic eyes. I feel them on me, though, the same way they have been for the fortnight I’ve been here preparing for the ceremony. He hasn’t touched me; he’s only brought me gifts and insisted I sit with him beside the greatfire in the evening before he goes out for his hunt. Sometimes I smell him in the hallway outside my rooms. But he never comes in, thank the goddess. The scent of blood is heavy on him in those moments. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if he’d attempted anything.

After this is done, it won’t matter. My bed will be his. As will my life.

A druid walks back and forth behind me, tossing rosemary and lavender onto the pyre after each stanza of his spell. He calls to the wind from the east, he calls to the waters in the west, and he pulls the spirit of flame and earth into the cairn with us, asking the Penta to approve the Bond set to be made between the two most powerful Houses, as he pleads for a blessing from our mothers, Brighid and Morrígan, and thanks the Cast for their permission to seal the Bond between the two very different powers.

A female druid comes to my side with bowl and brush, beginning to paint my skin in blue woad, tracing patterns of knots and runes across my back, then baring my chest and continuing.