Page 29 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“It’s a liability,” I say, ignoring his jab.

“Noted.” He sheathes his sword and crosses the yard toward me. He always stands too close now. “Since it’s my day off and you’ve finally decided to wake up, join me for lunch.”

“I should check the perimeter.” I don’t meet his eyes.

“The perimeter has been fine for two weeks. It’ll survive another few hours.” He starts walking toward the keep. “Besides, you need to eat. You’re no good to me if you collapse from hunger.”

“I need to conceal—” I stop. I was about to say I must hide my identity and I can’t take off my mask. Then I remember today I’m wearing the day mask. It covers the upper half of my face, leaving my jaw and mouth exposed.

Shit.

Garrett notices my hesitation and smirks. “Exactly. You can eat just fine.”

I fall into step beside him, hating how easily I obey. I hate even more how my pulse quickens when his arm brushes mine.

The keep’s gardens surround us as we walk, meticulously maintained by a staff I rarely see. Roses climb the stone walls, their blooms heavy and sweet-smelling. It’s so different from Tiamat’s poisoned air and dead vegetation. Here, things actually grow.

“You woke up late,” Garrett observes. “Bad dreams?”

I glance at him sharply. He’s watching me with that infuriating knowing look.

“I’m fine.”

“Right.” He doesn’t believe me. “You know, if something’s bothering you, you could just tell me.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

We walk back through the keep in silence, and my thoughts spiral again. Of course I’m not fine. He tied me up and jerked me off like it was nothing. Now I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s distracting, dangerous, and completely unacceptable for someone in my position.

And Garrett knows it.

I can see it in the way he glances at me sidelong, that hint of satisfaction in his expression.

Bastard.

I want revenge for this. For what he’s done to my focus, my control.

I study the soaring architecture of Elvarstyne Keep instead to avoid looking at him. It’s smaller than I expected for a house of Noble Aldarelf’s standing. Modest really, compared to the other elven estates I’ve seen in Aelfheim. But what it lacks in size, it makes up for in elegance.

The malachite crystals that power the keep cast everything in a soft, verdant glow. They’re almost everywhere, embedded in the walls, hanging in massive chandeliers, humming softly in the pipes that bring hot water to the baths. The crystals are worth a fortune, mined from deep in the Darvan Mountains. They’re part of why the elves and dwarves went to war decades ago. Blood was spilled over these glowing rocks, enough to fill rivers.

We pass through the entrance hall where servants pause in their work to bow to Garrett. He acknowledges them with easy familiarity and greets them by name. They look at me with barely concealed fear. We pass the main hall where a massive portrait dominates one wall.

The Clayborne family, painted years ago. Lord Clayborne stands tall and severe, his hand on the shoulder of a young man who must be Garrett’s older brother, the one who died. Garrett stands on the other side, younger but already carrying that same intensity in his eyes. Lady Clayborne sits in front, elegant and warm.

I’ve barely seen Lord Clayborne since I arrived. He’s always locked in his study or traveling to court. The soft-spoken Lady Clayborne avoids me entirely. I caught her staring once and she nearly fainted at the sight of my Grimsbane mask.

Garrett is the sole heir to all of this now. The keep, the lands, the title. One day he’ll be Lord Clayborne, one of the Aldarelfs in Aelfheim’s Elven Council.

“I’ll bathe first,” Garrett says when we reach his chambers. “Then we’ll head out.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt. I should look away. Instead, I watch as he peels the sweat-soaked fabric from his skin, revealing the planes of his back, the slope of his shoulders. There’s a scar running along his ribs, pale against his skin. I want to trace it with my fingers and my tongue.

Stop it.

I curse under my breath and turn toward the window, gripping the sill hard enough that my knuckles go white.

This is his fault. All of it.