Page 33 of The Knight

“Thanks.” He gave it a sniff, bracing himself. It couldn’t be worse than the tea she’d brewed earlier, right?

Asta raised her glass, the firelight glinting in the liquid. “Skál!”

Abe clinked his glass against hers. “Skál.” He knocked it back in one go.

The schnapps burned like liquid fire down his throat—earthy, as he expected, but with a surprising hint of sweetness, probably from the birch sap.

“You like?” Asta watched him closely.

He set the glass down on the small side table. “Very good.”

Asta beamed and patted her chest. “Will put hairs on your chest.” Her face stayed serious for a moment before she burst out laughing.

The sound was pure, and Abe relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing. He didn’t know this eccentric woman well, but instinct told him he could trust her. And his instincts were rarely wrong.

Asta poured herself another drink, then motioned for him to take one of the worn easy chairs near the stove. She settled into the chair opposite him, glass in hand, the bottle resting on the rug by her feet.

“Thank you again for putting us up.” Abe leaned back in the chair, soaking up the stove’s warmth.

Asta swirled her drink, watching the firelight play in the glass. “It is my pleasure. Moose and I do not get many visitors.”

He nodded, glancing around. “It’s pretty remote out here. But beautiful in its own way.”

She closed her eyes as she sipped her drink. “It is a raw beauty. Not something that can be seen at first glance. You must feel it here.” She fisted her hand over her heart, meeting his gaze. “For this reason, many people find the way and where I live…challenging.”

“It’s certainly different.” Abe glanced up at the creak of floorboards above. Freya must be out of the bath and moving around. “But to each their own.”

Asta refilled her glass, the firelight flickering over her features. “I chose this life alone—to indulge my interests, my research. It suits me. But it’s not for everyone, heh?”

Abe scanned the room, taking in the shimmer of copper mesh embedded in the faded floral wallpaper. The house was a giant faraday cage. “No, perhaps not for everyone. “

Asta drained her glass, her eyes sharp. “Like Freya?”

He cast his mind back to Freya’s impersonal house. There was a similarity here, a kind of calculated detachment in their living spaces. “I wouldn’t know,” he muttered.

“So polite.” Asta chuckled. “I think you are good for her. There is color in her cheeks.” She sagged back in her easy chair as Moose sauntered into the room. The cat jumped and perched above her head, tail swishing.

“That might just be the adrenaline from the bad guys chasing us.” He shifted in his chair.

“Perhaps, or maybe something else.” She lifted her glass toward him in a small toast, a knowing smile on her lips.

A stair creaked behind him.Freya.He stood, seizing the chance to escape Asta’s scrutiny and the uncomfortable truths her words had stirred. Truths about his feelings for Freya. Ones he wasn’t ready to confront.

As he turned, all thoughts fled.

The woman before him bore little resemblance to the rigid professional he’d met such a short time ago. Gone was the armor of scientific detachment, replaced by an unexpected vulnerability that caught him off guard.

Her damp hair, freed from its usual severe style, hung in loose waves that clung to her skin, revealing curls he’d never known existed. Without the harsh pull of a ponytail, her face was softer, the delicate lines of her jaw and high cheekbones now revealed in the golden firelight.

Asta’s borrowed clothes embraced her frame—well-worn dungarees that clung in all the right places, paired with a pale pink shirt, the feminine color bringing warmth to her complexion. Striped, hand-knitted woolen socks covered herfeet. A touch so domestic it made something primal stir deep within him.

This was the woman beneath the armor—the one she kept hidden behind layers of science and cold logic.

And damn if it didn’t knock the air right out of his lungs.

His fingers twitched. The urge to touch her, to pull her close, was almost overwhelming. He wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and bury his face in the curve of her neck and breathe in the scent of her freshly washed skin. Heat surged through him, constricting his chest and drumming his pulse in his ears.

He swallowed, his throat inexplicably dry, then cleared it again to regain his composure. “Here,” he said, motioning to his chair, his voice huskier than he intended. “Sit close to the fire. It’ll help dry your hair.”

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