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To Gwen’s utter shock, Sirus looked even better than before. Stronger. Sharper. He wore a tight, long-sleeved black shirt with a V-neckline low enough she could see the tattoos that blended with the dark hair that swirled across his muscled, olive-toned chest. His black beard was freshly trimmed, cut shorter to outline his chiseled jaw. His hair perfectly swept and curled at his ears. When she followed the line of his arm, she realized he was still holding on to her. Her skin burned beneath his touch. In an instant, he removed his hold and stepped back, giving her space. A tinge of heat brushed her cheeks as she continued to stare, not yet able to look away. Not yet able to believe he was standing in front of her.
A beat of silence lorded over them. Neither one of them seemed to know quite what to say, what to do.
“You seem—” he started at the same time she said, “You really do?—”
The muscles in his neck shifted as he nodded for her to continue.
Gwen fidgeted and finally dropped her eyes, her nerves getting the better of her. “I was just going to say, you really do heal fast,” she managed to mutter, the words fumbling out awkwardly.
He let out a little breath. “I do, yes,” he admitted, shifting on his heel, the only display that he might be uncomfortable. More silence.
Gwen bit at her lip, her eyes drifting up his stomach, to the place where she remembered that gaping wound to be. There was no wound now. No hint that he’d been injured at all. She swallowed, a touch of cold sweat spreading over her. It really was miraculous what magick could do.
“You should be in bed,” Sirus told her. Gwen blinked, refocusing herself. When his words processed, she scowled, her eyes darting up to meet his. His expression was shuttered, as usual.
Gwen had risen well before dawn feeling worlds better. She didn’t want to entirely admit it was thanks to drinking two whole cups of Levian’s disgusting healing potion, since the thick concoction had tasted like old socks mixed with celery juice, but it was hard to argue with the results. Her body was still achy, but it’d been extremely satisfying to crawl out of bed without any help or fussing. After another long soak in the tub and a fresh change of clothes, Gwen had felt like a completely new woman. She’d then become immediately restless.
The vast forest around the castle had gone from gray and ominous to enchanting under the clear sky of the early morning. She knew Barith and Levian would both scold her for being out of bed, but a little fresh air sounded wonderful, and neither had specifically told her not to leave her room. Giant castle or not, she’d assumed it couldn’t be that hard to find the front door, or at least a door that led outside. Levian had told her some things about the castle during the several hours she’d spent helping Gwen with her bath, doting on her, force-feeding her that gross potion, and checking all her injuries. Even the ones that were already healed. Gwen had thanked her as she’d thanked Barith, and Levian had basically told her the same thing the dragon had: that she was their friend, and they cared about her whether she liked it or not. After they’d both been near to tears, Levian had attempted to lighten the conversation by telling her all about Volkov. Sirus’s home. Apparently, it was giant, and ancient, and full of more artifacts than a fae treasure trove, whatever that meant.
Volkov was nothing like she’d imagined it, that was for sure. Gwen’s room alone was impressive, with rich, polished wood, dark mauve fabric furnishings, and a large, claw-foot, antique soaking tub. It’d taken only a few steps into the hall before she’d breathed a shocked curse of awe. So much for cobwebs and damp tunnels. There was a homeyness to the place, a warmth. An energy that was mysterious yet oddly inviting. At least it had been, until she’d run face first into Sirus’s skulking, very firm, shadowy form.
“I was fine,” Gwen retorted sharply, “until you scared the crap out of me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and her face tightened with pain as she once again forgot about the still-healing, jagged wound on her forearm. The wound he’d made digging into her skin with his teeth. Her stomach flopped, a skitter of nerves following.
Sirus’s sharp gaze fell to her arm, to the place beneath her sweater where the white linen bandage was wrapped firmly. His expression darkened, the muscles in his jaw more obviously tense now that his beard was trimmed short. She liked it shorter.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he offered again, attempting to sound softer.
Gwen believed him and felt a small pang of guilt for snapping. She looked at him sideways, her anxiety sending a swarm of angry wasps buzzing in her chest. “What are you even doing here?” she asked, forcing her eyes away from the bit of exposed skin at his chest that she seemed unable to avoid. She knew he had muscles, but that shirt teased at every groove, every ab, the V that ran down to his—Stop it!
“I often walk the halls in the morning.”
“Oh,” she croaked, clearing her throat softly. Right. This was his house. His castle. She supposed he could walk wherever he wanted. Though she couldn’t help the small tinge of disappointment. She’d thought he might say he was coming to see her.
“Don’t let me stop you,” she grumbled, shifting out of his path.
“Were you in need of something?” he inquired with the stiffness of any good host.
“I was going to step out,” she confessed, not finding any reason not to tell him. “For a little air.” This tension was unbearable. Gwen’s anxiety was growing with each passing second in his presence. So much that she was starting to breathe shallower. She’d wanted to see him; she’d even thought a long while about what she would say to him when she did, but it all seemed to evaporate now that he was here. It was startling to see him so healthy and groomed…after all that blood. Cold sweat spread further over her skin, and she fidgeted uncomfortably, her stomach weighted like she’d swallowed a cannonball.
He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and eyed her. The focus of his attention made her fidget with the sleeve of her sweater. She forced herself to look into his face. The moment their eyes met, a jolt ran through her center. She’d wanted to see that cool, sharp gaze again. Had pleaded for it. Her mouth suddenly felt very dry. It was bizarre, seeing him look so—normal. His hands tucked into his jeans, his outfit modern and casual. It warmed something inside her. Barith and Levian had told her he was well, but seeing it with her own two eyes was different. Gwen felt overcome with sudden relief, and she let out a deep, stuttered breath. It was so consuming she nearly threw her arms around him, not really caring if it freaked him out or not.
“I assume you wouldn’t heed me if I told you to get back into bed?” he posed, as cool as winter frost, instantly squelching her impulse to embrace him.
Gwen leaned a half step back, hoping the distance would settle her. She cocked a brow as she glared up at him. It was answer enough.
For a moment, he merely stared back at her, clearly displeased with her stubborn resilience. When he started to speak, she readied herself for the argument she knew was coming. “Get a coat,” he relented, “and I’ll show you the way.”
Her mouth opened, ready for battle, but she stalled. Wait, what? Her heart lurched when she processed what he’d said. “It’s fine,” she muttered, a little off-kilter. “You can just tell me which?—”
“Get a coat,” he repeated. It hadn’t been a suggestion.
Gwen cut him a look. A part of her wanted to argue with him, if for no other reason than to do it. To make things feel normal. To relieve this pressure that seemed to be bearing down around them like the abyss of the deep, dark ocean. I’m glad you’re okay, she nearly said, the words teasing the tip of her tongue. She crinkled her nose, aggravated that she wasn’t able to get them out.
Something in his frigid gaze shifted. Softened. The silence lingered again. Awkward and heavy. Her throat tightened with emotion as she tried to speak but stifled her words. Gwen turned sharply back toward her room, her heart pounding, tears threatening, not wanting him to see the raw emotions that might pour out. He was alive. He was healthy. She’d kept her promise. “Whatever you say, Lord Vampire,” she managed, hoping he didn’t hear the crackle in her voice.
A few minutes and several splashes of cold water over her face later, she was following Sirus through the castle’s east wing, jacket in hand. The wardrobe in her room had been conveniently stocked with all manner of accessories, including a cute pair of leather boots, which she’d changed into. Sirus’s pace was uncharacteristically casual as they made their way. He shifted his head sideways to look at her, and Gwen’s eyes darted away with embarrassment at nearly being caught staring at him. Her flustered gaze fell on a large suit of metal armor next to them, the vacant knight holding a long mace with a pointed, clubbed end. “It’s sixteenth-century,” he commented.
Another suit of armor with shimmering silver and gold leafy filigree sat next to it. They were an odd couple. Odder was the fact that the more delicate and pristine armor had clearly been crafted for a woman’s form. A spray of golden flowers lay over the mounded breastplate. “Fifteenth-century fae silver,” Sirus added. “A gift from Princess Laria of the Spring Court.”
