Page 35 of The Last One
“Sorry.” He flushes. “You’re right. I have no idea what you’re feeling.”
“You don’t.”Idon’t even know what I’m feeling.
I pick up the hatchet, place another branch on the block, hack it into two pieces, and drop them in the bucket. “Has Maford always been this way?”
“Blame bad fortune—that’s made many of us suspicious, and obviously no one like you lives here. Shit. I didn’t mean…” He pushes his hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. I meant to say: if Farmer Gery showed up in Brithellum in his dusty clothes and chicken feathers, he’d stick out, too. And who likes sticking out?”
“Some of us can’t help it.”
“And I’m grateful,” he says, touching his heart. “You are unlike anyone I’ve ever metanywhere. Not just Maford. I feel…” He searches the horizon for that emotion, and I hold my breath. “I feel like we came from the same cabbage patch or something.” Then he looks at me as though I’m the last star in the sky before dawn, the last sip of clean water ever. And the world around us stands utterly still.
My muscles loosen, and my heartbeat slows, and Jadon Ealdrehrt has become Jamart’s garden but with beautiful eyes, a tender smile, and a kind heart. If Imuststart over again… But I can’t start overhere.I need to move on and discover who I am, where I’m from, and what I’ve done that Sybel’s had to fix. I won’t discover that in Maford. Leaving this place doesn’t make me sad. Who I’ll have to leave behind?Thatmakes me sad. And I remember my dream, asking him to come with me, and I remember his answer.
No.
And just like that, the moment’s gone.
I blink and remember that I’m holding a hatchet. “So I have…” I gesture to the bucket of wood.
“I’ll get that.” He reaches for the handle with his injured hand. Both of his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and before now, I couldn’t see the angry red welts and burns scarring his arms. Some scars are old, but some are so new that I wince from the heat of their viciousness.
“Is that all from the forge?” I nod at his injuries, and he drops his hands to his sides, bucket forgotten.
Some of these burns look intentional. Like brands.
“They can’t all come from making spoons, right?” I ask. “Those slashes. From swords? What happened?”
Our gazes collide, and in that moment, I know this man. Even though I don’t know who I am or where I’m from, I do know that the violence on his arm is evil with intention, a marking that serves as a reminder to the bearer and to someone standing so close they can feel its cruelty. Love leaves no mark like this. Love doesn’t burn against skin like this. At least, I hope it doesn’t.
“Who wounded you?” I whisper, setting the hatchet back on the stump.
He tries to smile and busies himself unrolling his sleeves to cover the marks. “I’m okay, Kai. These are old. They look worse than they feel.”
I swallow to loosen the tightness in my throat, fighting the urge again to reach out to him and to offer comfort. My core bends toward him, urging me to slip my arms around his waist and place my cheek against his. The intense need to remove his suffering sweeps through my heart in a painful wave, overwhelming me, disorienting me, because I don’t knowwhat this is. Desire? Care? Both?
Jadon senses something, too, and he steps toward me like he knows what I want.
And I move closer like this is my calling, not tofixhim but to…
The moment the warmth of his body drifts to meet mine, we both tremble.
Somewhere in a cottage nearby, a man coughs. Another man coughs. Deep. Phlegmy.
Jadon takes a deep breath and steps away from me. After a moment, his jaw hardens, and he reaches for the bucket. “We should finish this up before the day ends.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, moving it out of his reach. “Even though you say you’re not, I know that you’re still hurt. I’ll carry the bucket.”
“No, I’m okay,” he insists.
I tilt my head and study his tense features. Why won’t he let me help him? “Jadon, you wanted me to get wood. Ifyoucould get it, then why sendme?”
“It’s fine, Kai. I do everything around here anyway.”
A smile warbles on my lips, half amused, half serious as I pick up the bucket by the handle. “Do you think asking for help makes you weak?”
His jaw tightens.Yes. “I know what I need.” He places his hands to the outside of mine on the handle.
I side-eye him. “Doyou?”
