Page 7 of The Scouts

I’d always known I would be the first to pronounce those three words. Unspoken, they sat on my tongue like shards of glass, cutting into its surface, yet somehow, I couldn’t spit them out. I’d almost succeeded in convincing myself that it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t say them back. That a part of me wouldn’t break or perish.

I’d suspected—hoped—he reciprocated my feelings. Yet overthinking plagued with doubt had kept me from taking action. After a while, pretending to wait for a better opportunity had become second nature. Now didn’t seem to be the right time, either. The last thing I intended was to confess my love out of fear and jealousy in an attempt to prevent him from leaving, binding him with my words like a captive with a rope.

The fact that the baroness was a woman—did it make it all worse or better? Would it help if I hadn’t seen her around the bastion once in passing? Possibly. As it stood, I couldn’t deny her allure or elegance in looks and bearing. Pondering on how enticing Lochan found the combination of beauty and confidence didn’t do me any favours right then.

Her hair had a shine of old gold to it—warmer and darker than the shade of mine. Did it matter? The unwanted memory of yet another woman with fair locks stole into my mind—a northern archer girl at the bottom of a hill, leaning to kiss Lochan’s cheek. Queasiness set off inside my stomach.

My insecurities stirred within me, summoned to the brim by the recent events and settling on top like foam on freshly poured ale. I’d given myself a migraine, spinning different scenarios in my head and then forcing myself to quiet them, only to move on to another in the next moment.

Not wanting to alarm Lochan, I feigned sleep. I fought the internal trembling of my tense muscles, compelling my body to relax, which should’ve been a natural state after what had happened between those sheets.

At last, his breathing evened out, and he became lax next to me.

Every time he drifted off in my embrace, I considered it a personal victory. That night, however, I would be the one to toss and turn long into the night.

* * *

ERVYN

Sleep must’ve claimed me at dawn break.

I woke up, groggy, to a tight sensation in my chest and cold, empty sheets on Lochan’s side of the mattress. My morning stiffness wilted at the sight.

Going against my habit of jumping out of bed straight after opening my eyes, I propped myself up against the headboard. For a time, I simply stared at the opposite wall and rubbed at my face. It didn’t take long before a barrage of thoughts inundated my brain.

Every so often—perhaps a couple of nights a month—Lochan would slip into the darkness, wearing a light-weight armour under his black, hooded clothing. He’d carry enough knives to outfit a small unit. Not once had he spoken of these solitary assignments that Commander Heinnés kept dispatching him on. And despite the questions swarming around in my head, I hadn’t asked.

But I’d taken to trying to suss out the nature of his missions—and the potential risk involved—by the type of weapons he would choose for the occasion. Poisoned blades? Close-range assassination, most likely, where precision couldn’t be guaranteed. Tiger claws, roped ladders and enchanted hand ties? Surveillance, close-quarter combat and possible abduction. Throwing stars? Reconnaissance that called for a foe-delaying strategy or escaping pursuit.

During his absences, I struggled to breathe freely. My tension would only dissipate at first light upon his safe return. He had often evaded my touch and gaze for hours afterwards, his eyes cold and jaw rigid. But once he’d stewed his dark mood away, he would come to me. Right into my arms. Always and without fail.

Our lovemaking in such instances tended towards raw and unrestrained, as though we both hungered to be soothed by each other’s presence and grounded by sheer physicality. During those times, he often demanded I mark him. It seemed a fair trade to me—the imprints of my fingers, palms and teeth on his skin in exchange for the sign of ownership he’d long carved into my soul.

This Baroness Leayés thing? I had to handle it the same way I had dealt with Lochan’s night escapades—consider it part of the job. Likewise necessary and unavoidable. Out of our hands. Something we wouldn’t talk about. Something that would be over with at sunrise. And when done—something that would guide him back to me, unchanged and still mine.

What I needed to do—all I could do—was to wait for that to run its course. As coping mechanisms went, it might’ve been a shitty one. But I’d failed to come up with an alternative.

Reaching this conclusion prompted me out of bed.

While throwing on my clothes, I pushed the window open and looked out. The aura matched my mood—overcast with the looming threat of a downpour later. A dozen City Guards practised their morning drills downstairs. The thunderous pounding of their boots against the stone echoed in the small courtyard, mingling with a rhythmic sound of wood being chopped.

I shifted my focus to a shirtless Elf in the far corner who worked away as if intending to supply the entire province with winter fuel. And what did you know? The diligent lumberjack was none other than Lochan.

One by one, the logs flew apart under each easy, precise strike of his axe. Based on the size of the pile surrounding the chopping block, he had been at it for a good while.

A sigh tore from me.

I’d learned to gauge Lochan’s distress by the amount of physical exercise he undertook—the more arduous and punishable, the higher his anxiety’s level. So I wagered my silver on pretty-fucking-distressed that morning.

Guilt warmed my cheeks. Wrapped up in my selfish torment, blinded by jealousy, I hadn’t much reflected on how he had been feeling about the task ahead of him.

Lochan Féyes delivered results, no matter the assignment. He’d proven himself to the unit mere days after joining. Senior Scouts respected him for his fighting skills and trusted his judgment. So did the commander, who’d placed Lochan in charge more than once during outings. Not many realised, however, how daunting Lochan found interaction with others. He’d sooner kill the fucking woman than talk to her; I could bet my horse on that. Petty or not, the thought brought a smile to my face.

Fair enough, Lochan’s conversational skills hadn’t likely been the baroness' top objective in inviting him over. Still, a lot rode on how he handled himself in front of the privileged bitch. And how much information he managed to extract from her in the end.

It dawned on me that I’d been gawking at half-naked Lochan from my window in the exact same manner the baroness had admired him the other day.

The thought caused me to cringe, but I still watched Lochan split a few more logs.