“Did you sleep well?”
He blinks and lowers his eyes to our tangled legs. A wild thought grips me as I wait for his reaction. What if I yank up my nightdress and straddle his lean hips? Would he object?
A vein throbs in his forehead as he meets my stare for a second time. No accusations burn there as I worried. Only things I find impossible to decipher in those blue depths. If only I understood him. If only he lusts the way other men do. They’re easy to read. Gabriel isn’t.
“Gabriel,” I say, my voice low, but audible enough for him to hear my desire.
For a beat, maybe two, his eyes lower, taking in my mouth, my throat, my thin nightdress before ripping away.
Disappointment grips me when he curses and bounds from the bed, robbing me of his heat. Muscles flex in his back and shoulders as he moves to the washing stand, cleans his face, and reaches for his surcoat.
He speaks as he continues dressing. “I moved Praxis to the other bedchamber. Don’t let anyone see him yet.”
“Gabriel.” I rise to sitting as he pulls on his weapon belt and pauses long enough to glance at me. “Must you go?”
“Yes. I’m already late.” He runs his fingers through his hair again and leaves the room.
I blow out a frustrated breath and move from the bed. The cold floor sends ice racing up my legs. After adding dried freesias to the water, I wash my face and body. Visions of lying close to Gabriel tease me as I dress in my gray surcoat, tie a belt around my waist, and leave the room.
Hesitation grips me like a fawn taking its first steps as I move to the other bedchamber. I peek around the door, studying the man lying on the bed. Like the day before, Praxis still sleeps.
Olah, help me.
The prayer strengthens me as I take a tentative step into the bedchamber. I need assurance, real assurance that my healing didn’t harm him further. Not that anything could have harmed him further. He was at death’s door.
I stare down at my hands, expecting something different, needing something different. They’re the same calloused hands. I clasp them together and shake my head. Mother would be amazed and proud. She always believed in me when others didn’t.
Yearning swells inside me, the desire to hear her voice one more time. Roland stole my heart the day he ripped her from me.
Now, I have healed a Bloodstone warrior, a man who has probably killed Kyanites.
The flame of bitterness scorches my stomach and flares through my veins as I flee the bedchamber. Near a wall in my room, I sink to the floor and let out quick breaths. I yank my kyanite necklace from my bodice and grip it.
Roland took Mother from me. I don’t need someone to draw a tapestry scene to remind me of his treachery. He stitched every moment against my chest.
I bring my knees forward, hunch my body, and bury my face against them. Now, I desire a Bloodstone warrior—Gabriel. He’s surrounded in mystery, yet he stirs me.
I should loathe him.
His sword. His legacy. His battle marks.
When I first met him, I was determined to conquer him. Now, I’m left wondering who’s doing the conquering.
“No!”
Bitterness bites into me as I slam my fingers against my left palm, remembering the pain of watching Mother being slaughtered. She’s my reminder to never forget my path. It’s mine. Nobody can ever take it from me.
Not even Gabriel.
ChapterThirty-Five
Dust kicks into the air as I step outside later that day to find a bustle of activity. Bloodstone warriors ride through the streets with battle marks slashed on their faces. The sun glares off those black lines as my lungs squeeze. Over the throng of men, I spot Gabriel riding next to Luc, Leah, and Hero.
I shade my eyes with my hand as Gabriel rides toward me and dismounts.
“Keep Praxis here and don’t allow anyone to see him,” he says in a low voice.
“What’s happening?”
