Page 68 of Saint
Footsteps on the stairs made him pull away from me, and his fingers slipped from my hair, leaving me breathing so hard that my head was light with it. When the door opened, Saint was already across the room, and Nash appeared with Daya on his heels. She had one hand to his back, like she was guiding him through the doorway.
“Can’t hold his rye, that’s for sure,” she quipped, not even looking up as she set down a stack of folded linens on one of the cots. “Figured you’d need a fresh bed.” She finally shot me a glance, wiping her hands on her apron. “Need anything else?” The question was meant for Saint.
“No,” he answered.
Nash shuffled to the pile of quilts on the floor, collapsing before he’d even taken off his boots. He rolled over, facing the wall as Daya left, and Clove appeared, pulling the shirt over his head as the door closed. The arm of the light cloth was soaked with blood, but Clove didn’t look the least bit concerned about the stripe of open flesh beneath his shoulder.
The three of us moved around one another in the dark and the sound of boots hitting the floor and belts being hung was the only backdrop to the image still whirling in my mind. The way Saint had looked at me. The way he’d kissed me. Like he was sure about it.
Clove climbed into his cot and when I picked up the linens Daya had left to make up another bed, Saint took them from my hands without a word. He said nothing as he unrolled them on the ground and lay down.
I stood there, looking around the dark room for a moment before I climbed onto the cot, tucking myself into the quilts. I closed my eyes before I drew the air into my lungs, knowing what scent I’d find there. Deep ocean.Saint.
My fingers found my lips, the soft warmth of his mouth still there.
I didn’t know what exactly I’d gotten myself into by walking through the door of that tavern. But something about it felt like I’d been waiting for it my entire life. Like every path I could have taken from my mother’s study that night led to one place—right here.
25ISOLDE
“Hold still,” Saint snapped, pinching the bloody needle between his fingers.
The wound on Clove’s arm was deep enough to warrant stitches, but he couldn’t have looked less concerned.
The tavern was empty again, except for the barkeeper and Daya, whom I’d worked out to be Griff’s wife. She’d been kind enough to fetch me some clothes that didn’t give away where I was from, and she’d also been the one to insist that Clove’s cut needed tending to. But Clove wouldn’t let her touch him. Saint was the only one he’d let come near the wound.
She reappeared with a porcelain bowl of warm water and Saint pressed the tip of the needle through the end of the cut, biting the thread before he tied it off. The skin was alreadyred and inflamed, but it didn’t look like the blade had reached the bone.
I wondered just how many times he and Clove had stitched each other up. The history between them went back farther and deeper than I could have guessed, and it carried a heaviness that bore more than childhood memories. They were connected in places the eye couldn’t see.
I hadn’t slept more than an hour or two through the night, lying awake in the dark and replaying that moment in my head over and over again. Saint’s hand dragging through my hair. The brush of his lips across mine. Those words he’d spoken—what is this?
I still didn’t have an answer.
“If your fathers could see you,” Griff grunted, dragging the damp rag down the counter as Saint washed Clove’s blood from his hands.
Daya tried her best to frown at him, but there was a smile buried beneath it. “They’d be damn proud,” she said.
Griff nodded in agreement, as if that was exactly what he was thinking.
“They won’t let it go, you know,” I said, handing Clove the clean cloth. “Those traders have something to prove now that the Trade Council here is granting licenses.”
What I didn’t tell them was that I recognized those traders. That they were the same ones who’d chased after me in the market. And more than likely, they’d been there last night looking for me.
Clove pressed the cloth to his arm, wincing. His face was busted, a cut lip and a bruise forming along his cheek. Butit could have been worse. He could have ended up with that knife in his belly.
Daya set one hand on her hip. “Breakfast before you go?”
“Just tea,” Saint answered.
“All right.” She sighed disapprovingly before trailing back into the kitchen.
Saint took the seat beside mine, not quite as careful to keep the space between us as he’d been before. He didn’t have the rigid apprehension I’d expected from him this morning, the hesitancy of someone who regretted their actions. Maybe because I’d said I was staying. Or maybe because he’d put words to the thing that had been unspoken, like letting a wild animal loose from its cage. There was no point in pretending we could put it back.
Clove and Saint had spent the early hours hashing out what came next: sailing to Dern, settling debts, signing contracts. In three weeks’ time, we’d be back in Ceros with theAster,and that was when the real trade would begin. But there was still the matter of Henrik’s missing coin.
The door to the street scraped over the uneven floor and Griff called out from the kitchen. “Only open to inn guests! Tavern doesn’t open for a few hours.”
“Then I’ll take a room.”
