Page 117 of The Mirror of Beasts

Emrys cracked an eye open and had started to turn back toward me when he noticed my drying coat. He raked his gaze over it and my dripping-wet sweater—over the dark blood still staining both. Fear sharpened his features as he swung around toward me, reaching out with both hands to gently grip my arms as he frantically looked me over.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice still scratchy from disuse. “Are you hurt?”

His hands were so warm, the calluses on his palms sparking a friction that made my stomach tighten and my pulse speed. I had to remind myself to pull away.

Don’t touch me, he’d said. Don’t touch me.

Now he was acting like he’d never said it? That he was content to touch me, as long as I didn’t do the same to him?

“I’m fine—Emrys.” He finally looked up at my face, hearing me as I repeated, “I’m fine.”

“All that blood—” he began.

“—belongs to the poor, unfortunate Cath Palug,” I said.

Emrys pulled back, his brows rising. An unmistakable interest brightened his eyes. “Cath Palug? I thought Arthur killed it… .”

“Yeah, well, it turns out that men taking credit for things they didn’t actually do has been an ongoing theme throughout history,” I said.

“We are but creatures of fragile ego and beastly pride,” Emrys said. “Do we need to worry about it tracking us back here?”

“Not unless it can reattach its head to its body, or it has little Cath Palug offspring to avenge it,” I grumbled. Which, frankly, would be just my luck. “And we don’t need to do anything. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

He sat back, swiping a hand over his rueful face. “Isn’t it obvious?”

I hated the warm frisson his words sent down my spine.

“Last time I checked, you were half dead and unconscious,” I said. “So no, it’s not actually obvious.”

“Wait,” he said, holding up his hands. “Can we go back for a second to the part where you apparently beheaded a legendary monster?”

Emrys looked at me with something akin to wonder. I glowered back.

“No,” I said. “We’re staying on the topic of how you possibly tracked me here, to Lyonesse.”

“Are you asking because you were worried I wouldn’t recover, or because you didn’t believe me when I said I wanted to make amends?” His voice was deceptively light.

My jaw clenched so hard that I was afraid I’d locked it in place. His eyes were soft as he watched me, and it was maddening and bewildering and painful, because I had wanted him to look at me like that. In Avalon, when he’d come back. Instead, I’d gotten harsh words and cold rejections, as if he’d been the wronged one. He’d pushed me away, before I could do the same to him. The confusion had to be the point—to keep me off-balance, to keep me guessing.

“I don’t care if you die,” I told him. “Or if you make amends.”

“Well, that was a lie,” he said, unimpressed. The edges of his lips curled—not that I was staring at them. “You have a tell, you know.”

“I don’t have a tell,” I protested. My lying face had earned me a steady income through the Mystic Maven. It remained unquestioned and undefeated, even in card games.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, but you do,” Emrys said. “It’s subtle, though.”

“What is it, then?” I demanded.

He smirked, revealing nothing.

“You are impossible,” I growled. “Tell me!”

“And give up the only advantage I have over you?” he said. “Not a chance.”

I blew out a hard breath through my nose. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” he asked, with all the innocence of someone who knew exactly what I meant.

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