Page 103 of Anathema

Every inch of my body tingled, the awareness of my naked form beneath the shirt only a mild distraction from how utterly attractive he looked in his casual clothes. The way his chest muscles peeked through the open neckline of his tunic and the fabric bunched around his bulging biceps. His midnight-toned hair stood tousled about his face in lazy wisps that refused to flatten. I’d never stood before a man so virile, so wildly masculine, in my life. There was something dangerously seductive about him, leaving me feeling too warm beneath the tunic. A deadly allure, fitting for the kind of man who could whisper honeyed words in your ear as he ran a blade through your heart.

“I’ll escort you to your room,” he said, but as he took a step in my direction, I shook my head.

“No, it’s all right. I can return on my own.” The last thing I wanted was to walk all the way to the dungeon alongside him, flustered like some silly little girl.

“You can’t return to the dungeon dressed like that. You’ll take one of the rooms on the upper floor. The door will be locked, of course.”

“For my privacy? Or because I’m your prisoner?”

Something flickered in his eyes, and I dared to think he would’ve loved to call me as such. “I don’t house prisoners, Lunamiszka.” The unspoken implication in his voice told me what he didn’t bother to say. He killed them. “Would you prefer to sleep in the dungeon?”

“I prefer to be entrusted with my freedom, no matter where I sleep. As I understand, there are fyredrakes on the premises that you’d happily toss me to. So, how could I possibly escape?”

“As relentless as you are, I’m sure you’d find a way.”

“I hardly know you, but I’m certain you’d do the same in my position. And what in seven hells is Lunamiszka?”

He snorted. “A language you apparently don’t speak, for once.”

For once? “I’m speaking as I’ve spoken my entire life, which means we must share the same language.”

“And what do you call your language?”

“Vonkovyan.”

“I am familiar with Vonkovyan. It is one of our many dead languages.” He crossed his arms, drawing my eyes to the deep groove in his chest visible through the laces of his tunic. “You are not speaking Vonkovyan. You are speaking perfect Nyxterosi. How? Answer that question, and I’d be more inclined to let you roam free.”

A dead language? “That doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never learned a language outside of Vonkovyan.” Not even Lyverian.

“Then, your door will remain locked.” Clearly, he thought I was something far more interesting. Like a spy—or worse, a threat. It was almost laughable, so unimaginably far from reality.

“You never answered my question. What does Lunamiszka mean?”

He leaned back against the stony wall behind him, his stance more relaxed. Casual. Devastating, how brutal and aristocratic he could look at the same time. “It means you’re persistently frustrating and you ask too many questions.”

“All that in a single word?”

“We like brevity. And silence.”

“Are you speaking for all of your personalities?”

The way his mask moved, I could tell he was grinding his jaw.

“If I’m going to be locked away all day, I’d prefer to have company, at least. I’ll remain in the dungeons with Dolion.” I wanted to ask the elder man more about glyphs and the symbol he’d examined on my hand. At least he seemed willing to entertain my questions. I couldn’t stand the thought of being locked in a room by myself all day long. Even if the view was beautiful, the thought of being alone for hours on end terrified me.

“Then, you will be escorted without argument.”

“Fine.”

He strode toward me, setting my nerves ablaze as he came to a stop not quite a foot from where I stood, his height and size apparent when I stared at the middle of his broad and muscled chest. His body reminded me of the solid oak in front of the cottage back at Foxglove, and the way it shaded the entire yard when the sun was high.

A flick of his fingers dragged my attention to his rough and scarred hand outstretched toward me. Markings on his skin held the faint outline of strange shapes, and I wondered if they were the glyphs. “I’ll pass your clothes off to Magdah for laundering.”

I clutched them tighter, remembering my undergarments were buried in the pile. “Magdah?”

“Yes. She makes the food that you enjoy flinging,” he said, his voice sharp with sarcasm.

Clearing my throat, I balled the pile tighter, ensuring my dirty undergarments were tucked deep into the mound, and handed them off.

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