Page 48 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Give it back.” Brennen takes an aggressive step toward me, and I hold my hands up to stop him. He’s shown me he doesn’t plan to hurt me, but the fury in his eyes is different now. Less calculated anger and more feral, wild rage.

“Do not come even a step closer. I haven’t done anything.”

“You stole my dàn.” He says it like I’m daft, and a flash of anger surges in my blood. Why is every problem always my fault? Without fail, every piece of blame falls to me, no matter the situation, and I’m tired of it.

“You grabbed me.”

“You took my dàn of steadiness.”

I scoff, my anger only growing at his insistence. “I did no such thing!”

“Have you done this before? Taken magic from anyone else?”

“What? No!” I say, but he’s no longer listening. He pulls up his sleeves, examining the inky marks on his hands and forearms.

“Six, seven…” he says under his breath.

He pulls off his tunic, revealing a broad, muscular chest covered by what must be close to a dozen more dàn, wrapping around his ribs and across his muscular chest. My mouth goes dry at the sight. At the sheer power of him. This is the body of a warrior. Someone who has seen battle and won.

His eyes sharpen as he examines the dàn, his nostrils flaring as he turns his back to me.

“What do you see on my back?”

I don’t answer as I take in the masterpiece that is the broad plane of his shoulders. The way his muscles taper in as they descend toward his waist. It’s as if he has been carved from stone. A statue, erected with the singular intent of demanding worship.

Three thick black lines run the length of his spine. Across each defined shoulder is a different symbol, dàn I don’t recognize. A fourth curves beneath his arm to run down his ribs. And several more fill the empty space around the others.

“I see your dàn,” I say, my voice coming out shaky, but it’s not from fear.

“How many?” he snaps.

I count, trying to ignore the way my stomach and tongue seem to have twisted into knots.

It is the most of a man I have seen in quite some time, and yet he doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, his hands clenched into tight fists and rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“Um, seven, I think,” I say, my voice shaking.

Brennen turns, his nostrils flaring as he tries to control his rage.

“Tell me how you did it.”

He stalks forward, pulling out his dagger again, and this time, I’m not so sure he won’t use it.

I force my feet to remain firmly planted. “I did nothing. I don’t know how to take magic⁠—”

“Dàn cannae be taken. They cannae be transferred. They are given by the Fates, and the Fates alone. So how did you do it?” He places his dagger against my throat, but I refuse to show him my fear.

“I. Didn't," I say, chest heaving with shallow breaths. “Do you not have a dàn of truth?” I ask.

His eyes narrow, his other hand clenching into a fist in frustration.

“Hear me clearly this time when I say it. I. Did. Not. Take. It.”

He doesn’t respond, nostrils flaring as he waits for me to give in. For me to break.

“I didn’t steal it, and I don’t need or want it. Feel free to take it back,” I say. I hold out my leg, but he stares at it as if it is coated in poison.

“Don’t touch me again,” he spits, his words clipped and furious. He lifts my chin with the dagger, and I stare directly into his eyes. I refuse to back down from him. Not when I did nothing wrong. Why is he accusing me of ill-intent when he could just as easily be to blame for what’s happened?