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Or it just doesn’t work. A bit of old folklore passed down that’s more fiction than reality. The idea doesn’t have the heaviness I expect it to. Perhaps sex with Thieran really has addled my brain.
Closing the doors to the wardrobe, I make my way to the library. I tucked the book back into its spot to avoid any of the servants happening on it in my room. I’m not sure what I expect to find by looking again at a ritual I copied down and then memorized weeks ago.
Or if I want to find anything at all.
The library is empty, the smell of old parchment and leather wrapping around me as soon as I step through the vaulted doors. My footsteps echo into the ceiling, and torches flicker and pop in the silence.
I hesitate at the base of the shelf where the book belongs. I’ll need the wrought iron ladder to reach it because it’s tucked between a thick book about wildlife and a tall book about herbs and their properties on the sixth shelf.
Wrapping my fingers around the ladder’s railing, I take a deep breath and quickly make the climb before I can talk myself out of it.
The book is right where I left it. I pluck it free and tuck it under my arm, carrying it to a small seating area arranged against a window between two bookcases. I prop my feet up and lay the book against my thighs.
The ritual is close to the end, the pages more worn than the others, as if the previous owner used this one ritual more than the rest. I trace my fingertip over the crescent moon and sprig of lavender burned into the leather cover.
It’s a simple thing, opening to the right page. I don’t know why I’m hesitating.
A noise from the hall catches my attention, and I look up in time to see the swing of black robes passing by the open door. It’s only seconds before Thieran fills the frame, and he’s making his way toward me in a blink. I quickly slip the book between the cushions and turn to press my back against it.
He seems angry as he claims the chair across from mine, tension etched between his brows and in the hard set of his mouth. His bright blue eyes are cold and calculating.
Whatever the cause of his mood, I could use a good fight. It might remind me to stop delaying where my escape plans are concerned. And I’ll take any motivation I can get at this point. I’ve become entirely too comfortable here.
“I thought I sent you to your rooms.”
I snort, rolling my eyes. “I’m not a child, Thieran.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs before looking at me. “I never said you were.”
His tone is full of exasperation, his face expectant. Like I should explain why I’m in the library instead of tucked into bed like an invalid. He’ll get no such explanation from me.
I leave him to the silence, head tilted, and a muscle ticks in his jaw while he seemingly recounts what he’s just said to me. His mouth opens, and he pauses before huffing out a little breath.
“I see the healer fixed you up,” he tries instead.
I follow his gaze to my forearm and the faint pink line drawn down the center of the fabric where the blood has soaked through.
“She did. It feels better now that I’m not writhing in agony.”
I don’t know why I said it, but Thieran lunges forward, eyes wide, and grips my wrist. Tugging me into his lap, he runs his fingertips up and down the bandage until my arm tingles and warms. The smell of cedar, cinnamon, and woodsmoke surrounds us, and I realize he’s using his powers to soothe my wound.
It strikes a chord deep inside me, and my heart flutters in my chest. I can’t remember a time since my parents’ deaths when someone wanted to take care of me. To make sure I was unhurt, safe, comfortable, wanting nothing in return.
“Thieran.”
He doesn’t react to the sound of his name, intent on his work. I run my fingertips over his cheek to his jaw and turn his face to mine.
“Thieran. I’m fine. I was only teasing. The cut was shallow. I barely lost any blood. And the healer gave me a salve, so it won’t even leave a scar.”
Leaning into my hand, he turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm. I’m as surprised by my need to soothe him as I am by his need to be soothed.
I expect him to release me, but when he doesn’t, I lean into him instead of extracting myself from his grasp. He settles me back against his chest and buries his nose in the nape of my neck, inhaling deeply.
My gaze tracks to the book hidden in the cushions and the ritual inside that is supposed to be my freedom. Freedom I thought I still wanted. Freedom I should still want.
Missing a step or an ingredient is an easy fix. The most I’d have to wait is a fortnight for another potion to cure.
“How did you know I was injured?”
