The smell of burning wood and citrus jolts me, and waves of panic invade. I don’t know where I am. I take a few steady breaths and rub at my eyes. As they slowly unstick, I take in the spartan landscape of a one-room cabin with a large fire crackling in a limestone hearth. The door swings open, and Beck walks in, carrying dry wood. He pauses, glancing at me before he shuts the door with his heel.
“Sleep well, princess? Or should I send out for a dwarf or seven?” he asks as he lets the sticks tumble next to the fireplace. His hair is dry, and daylight filters in through the windows, tinged with the yellow of a fresh day.
“How long have I been asleep?” I ask, bracing to push myself up.
“You might want to take it slow,” he says, chewing on an orange peel. He’s crouched next to the fire, holding a fat gray stick, his back to me.
“Have I been down that long?”
“Well, you’re not exactly dressed for high tea.” He looks back over his shoulder, and I swear his eyes are laughing. One side of his mouth curves up as he waits for me to put two and two together.
“What?” My stomach jumps into my chest, and I pull the scratchy wool blanket tighter. Familiar amnesic anxiety pumps from my panicked heart, flooding into my arms and hands with sharp tingles. His smile fades and the laughter in his eyes dims, hardening into something else as he turns back to the fire.
“Don’t worry. Nothing happened. You’re safe.” He shoots another look over his shoulder and cracks a wry smile, exposing a dimple in his cheek. “I kept the misogynistic mermen and half-wit harpies at bay.” The melodrama in his voice does nothing to quell my anxiety, and I stare at a muddy spot on the floor near the fireplace. He exhales and wedges the stick into the fire with delicate precision. Then, with one hand, he lifts a solid oak chair and carries it to the foot of the bed. Carefully, he sits.
“Arden, I swear. Nothing happened.” I nod, my eyes still on the floor.
“Can you look at me?” he asks, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his thighs. Shaking slightly, I lift my gaze. His golden-green eyes are steady and sincere, his expression warm and open. I know he’s telling the truth, but my heart won’t slow down.
“You passed out before we left the hedge maze. It took about fifteen minutes to get here, and I still had to build the fire. Your clothes were soaked through, and you were shivering.” He pauses for a second, and his strong hands fidget, picking at the seam of his pants. “I removed the wet clothing, but that’s it. I swear.” I bite the side of my tongue and look under the heavy red and black blankets. I’m wearing a large, wrinkled shirt with buttons. Underneath, there’s nothing but skin, save for my bracelet.
“You put the shirt on me, and then removed my . . . underthings?” I ask carefully.
“Something like that,” he says. One eyebrow quirks, and his mouth stays open, as if there’s more he wants to say. My heart races in earnest now, and I sit up as the blood rushes to my head. I take a deep breath, pulling the warm, dry air deep into my lungs, and close my eyes.
“When I was, um . . .”
“Naked?” he offers, so flat and devoid of emotion, it’s as though he’s commenting on the weather. As if he can deprive it of all meaning by treating it as mere fact. I take another deep breath and fight my instinct to look away.
“Did you . . . look? At me?” His pupils dilate, and I know the answer. His gaze wavers, and something passes across his face, clouding his features in murky darkness. He rubs his forehead and lets out a short, sharp breath, eyes carefully averted from my gaze.
“I saw your scar.”
“Oh.” I reach for my hip, run my fingers over the ugly, raised skin where CJ’s initials are branded into me.
“I won’t say anything,” he says quietly. I snort and shake my head.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. I let the blankets fall slightly and chew on my tongue, tasting metal.
“Of course it matters. God, what must you think of me?” he says to no one in particular. He slumps, his posture a strange mix of rigid outrage and defeated resignation. He hangs his head, rubbing his thumb up and down the side of his nose. When he looks up, I see an understanding that sucks the breath from my lungs. I feel known. There is no judgment in his gaze, no horror, no voyeurism . . . just a sense that, without having to explain, he knows.
A loud rap sounds at the door, and I flinch, burrowing beneath the blankets again. Beck hesitates, then goes to the door and opens it narrowly. His shoulders slacken when he sees who’s standing on the other side, and he pulls it back to reveal the last person I expected: Declan.