Page 41 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“The man whose name you called out during the fight.” Faren didn’t look at me when he clarified, “Grinnick.”

It’d been a mistake, of course. Pure, blinding instinct. To think that a Mighty Knight had witnessed such a vulnerable moment…my embarrassment was acute. I covered it up by pitching my voice low, assuming a suggestive tone. “Are you jealous I called out someone else’s name in the heat of the moment?”

“A little,” he said, “seeing as I almost died.”

I snorted. “You said you weren’t going to ask about him, but this conversation sounds a lot like asking.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “No. I just didn’t want you dreading the question.”

As I watched him wind the fabric around his arm, I felt the ghost of Grinnick’s memory clearing. Acknowledging my moment of panic—even vaguely—didease some of this morning’s lingering tension.

Faren tried to tie the ends of his bandage one handed, but the fabric slipped. “Fates,” he muttered, unraveling the wrap and starting over.

“Need help?”

“Truly?” He sounded dubious.

Begrudgingly—before I could change my mind—I seated myself next to him and took up the ends of the bandage. Up close, the wound was jagged, but not too deep. Still, I winced, feeling a twinge in my own arm. Touch magicians could be squeamish—because we felt things so keenly, it was easy to imagine someone else’s pain as our own—but after tending countless wounds, I was accustomed to ignoring the squirmy feeling in my stomach at the sight of torn flesh.

Faren held his arm away from his body, allowing me to coil the bandage around the place where the cap of his shoulder met his bicep. On a few occasions, as I passed the fabric under his arm, my knuckles grazed his ribs, and my magic sparked. I recalledthe fear I’d experienced when he was struck. It wasn’t just the terror of my past with Grinnick that had unnerved me—I had worried for Faren. Golden brute, egoistical ass,nemesis.

It was confounding, to say the least.

When his arm was wrapped sufficiently, I tied the bandage snug and tucked the ends, my fingertips lingering on the contours of his muscle beneath the fabric. His arm was draped loosely across my lap to give me access to his wound, and if I weren’t a touch magician, I might’ve missed the way his fingers curled against the outer seam of my trousers. It was an idle movement, easily excused by the tension in his arm due to pain. But he was a touch magician, too, and the contact didn’tfeelinvoluntary.

Our eyes met. His were the color of liquor, a blend of honey and gold—yet they seemed to drinkmein. I felt suddenly hyperaware of how close we were sitting, his thigh pressed against mine. Other sensations—the stirring of the breeze, the fluttering of my shirtsleeves, the hardness of the boulder upon which we sat—seemed to fade into the background, until only my fingers, the bandage, and his arm remained.

Without thinking, I allowed my hand to slip down and meet his bare bicep. His skin was warmer than mine but pebbled with goosebumps. I could feel the ridges of his muscle tissue, supple and strong. His arm flexed in response to my touch, and my magicblazed.

I drew back as if I’d been burned. Faren startled, too, and we both stood abruptly, seeking space.

He coughed. “Porridge?”

“What?”

“For breakfast,” he clarified. “I have barley in my pack.”

“Uh, sure.”

He nodded and went to his gear, pulling a fresh shirt over his head before retrieving and pot and traipsing off into the woods toward the creek.

When he was gone, I let out a puff of breath. Last night must’ve frayed my nerves more than I realized. I knelt on the ground in front of the fire and held out my hands, hoping to sear away the sensation of his skin.

16

Diversion

Faren

When Faren was a boy, a young hunting dog—either lost or abandoned—turned up on his family’s country estate. The hound was all black, thin, and skittish, with worried eyes and a tucked tail. She resided in the grove at the back of their home, often lingering on the forest’s edge. Endeared to the poor creature, the Haywards began leaving food for her, and watched with delight from their solarium when the dog sniffed and ate their offerings.

Determined to bring her into their care, Faren and his sisters each assumed a different approach for earning the hound’s trust. Kate attempted to the lure her with cheese. Beatrice rigged a cage trap. Eva tried to play with the dog by tossing a ball, and frowned when the stray didn’t race after it. Faren, for his part, brought his father’s friendliest hound to the forest’s edge, hoping to coax the stray with a fellow canine. But none of their efforts worked.

Five days into the ordeal, Persephone—their bookish, introverted sister—decided to read outside. She packed a picnicof meats and cheeses, tucked a history book under her arm, and traipsed through the tall grass toward the grove. While the rest of the siblings plotted their next moves, Persephone read for hours in the springtime sun.

Come late afternoon, Faren’s mother sent him to retrieve his sister for a party they were to attend that evening. Faren found Persephone still seated in the grass beside her picnic basket, almost finished with her book. The dog’s head rested in her lap.

When he approached, the hound lifted a lip, showing teeth. Persephone patted frightened creature’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” she told the dog. “He’s harmless.”