Page 44 of Through the Wicked Wood

“Are you even listening to me?” Galen’s voice cuts through me like steel as I lean my head back against the wall with a sigh.

“Yes.” Closing my eyes, the exhaustion from the past few weeks seeps into my bones. My travels down the coast have been mentally draining. Ramshire, then Davenport. Both cities are typically prosperous and eager to trade under the king’s nose, but with the blight, the pickings were slim. “But also, no,” I admit halfheartedly. Galen’s glare burns through me, even with my eyes still closed.

“Just go,” he growls.

“I beg your pardon?” I manage to say through a laugh, amused by not only his shortness but his command. I don’t often take commands, rather, I never take commands. Whipping his head toward me, he slams down his book.

“You’re distracted and we both know it,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger toward me. Well, he is right about that. “And I think we’ve known each other long enough to be honest, yes?” he asks as I sit and wait for what I’m sure is to be the chastising of the century. “So just… go,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “Go tell her how you feel. Get it out in the open. Not only is it annoying to be around the two of you, it’s distracting for everyone. So, just go.” He leans forward placing both elbows on the table, his blonde hair is ruffled and out of place, frustration displayed between his dark brows. It isn’t often Galen lets himself show so much emotion, even disdain.

“I’m sorry to have annoyed you,” I laugh, standing a little too quickly from the booth, squeezing his shoulder as I walk by.

“You always annoy me,” Galen gruffs. “She’s in room two.”

* * *

The walk down the hall of the Sherwood Inn stretches for what feels like miles. Several times, I make it halfway before turning and stomping back to the front door. I have no doubt the kind woman at the front thinks I’m mad, but my heart and my head can’t agree on what the fuck I’m actually doing.

Letting out a long sigh, I run a hand down my face. I should let her be. Let her rest. But as I turn a final time to head back across to the pub, my boots skid to a stop. My heart races, and before I know it, I’m back outside of Elora’s door.

When I finally get the courage to knock, Elora opens the door with her hair still wet from the bath, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s wearing nothing but a tunic, her bare legs smooth as ivory. My heart skips a beat, thinking of the last time I saw her legs bare. The poker game where she almost bested me. I’ve never had to fight to keep my composure before, and her taking off her tunic that night almost did me in.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, cracking the door open, allowing me to see that she’s carrying one of her daggers. She catches my eyes on the blade, and relaxes her grip as she opens the door further. She gestures for me to come in, so I do. Taking a seat in the small chair by the fireplace, Elora sits on the bed, covering her lower half with the patchwork quilt, tucking her dagger into its sheath atop the bedside table. I smile, noticing she’s using the sheath I traded Eviey and Letty for.

“So…” she says then stops, chewing the inside of her cheek, her hands toying with the edges of the quilt. What the hell did I even have to say? Why did I come here?

“The other night”—standing, I cross the small room in a few steps, sitting myself on the foot of the bed—“I just wanted to commend your poker skills. It would appear as though I’ve met my match.”

Idiot.

“You still beat me,” she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her cheeks flush but then, in an instant, her eyes turn weary as she tilts her head to the side, pressing her ear into her shoulder. A gesture so small, and yet I’ve seen her do it often. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s more than what it appears. Despite it, I could live in these moments. Where Elora lets down her guard. Her playful quips. If I hadn’t witnessed magick outside of this room, I’d swear this was it.

“True.” I smile and to my surprise, she smiles back. A full, wide grin I’ve seen only once before, back when we first entered Loxley. A smile that’ll be sure to damn my heart, keeping it her prisoner until she decides to let it free. Though, would I want her to? I trace my eyes along the freckles that skirt across the bend of her slightly crooked nose, up to her golden eyes, back to her full pink lips before scooting myself closer to her.

“Whatever this is between us,” I whisper, twirling a lock of her damp hair between my fingers, “I hope you feel it too.” I let my hand rest on her shoulder for a moment but as I pull away she reaches up, intertwining our fingers.

“And what feeling is that?” she asks, her smile gone and brows furrowed.

I hmm for a moment, savoring the heat of our joined hands and her touch. “It’s difficult to put into words, isn’t it?” I laugh, stroking the back of her hand with my thumb. My skin lights up with every touch, and I hope to the Mother she feels it too. “Like a bolt of lightning during a dry storm. The kind that cracks across the sky, leaving sparks of heat in its place.” I stroke the back of her hand again and she flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “The kind of lightning that is so distracting, so beautiful and foreign, it could easily destroy everything it strikes.”

She says nothing for a few moments, letting my words fall heavily in the air. A confession, more like it. I begin to doubt coming here when, finally, she chuckles. “Are you a poet as well as a thief?”

Huffing a laugh of my own, I grip her hand firmer. “I guess one could say that I am.”

“Maybe I like poetry,” she whispers, breaking our gaze and glancing down to our connected hands. “Maybe I like you, too.” Her words leave my stomach swirling but it’s her face that leaves my heart in a flurry. I can’t help but think how beautiful she is at this moment. The armor she always has wrapped so tightly around herself, cracked slightly. Only for me. If I achieve anything in this life, it will be to tear her armor completely. Or rather, give her no reason to wear it at all.

“I won’t lie, that’s a bit of a relief.” I smile, clearing my throat. Nerves getting the best of me. “I was worried you’d tell me to piss off again.”

Her features soften, but her eyes still hold a hint of worry, maybe doubt. Whatever it is, she doesn’t voice it. I force myself to stay absolutely still, fearing I'll blink and she’ll scurry away like she’s done before.

“You have a lot of feelings for a lowly thief,” she says, making me smile. “And maybe I would agree with you that whatever this is”—she gestures to our hands—“doesn’t feel like anything I’ve experienced before.”

“And what does this feel like to you?” I ask, not entirely sure if I even know that answer. Not sure if Elora liking me is the same as the magnetic draw I feel toward her.

Leaning closer, she readjusts, uncrossing her legs. As she does, the quilt shifts revealing the bare skin of her thighs. She makes no attempt to cover herself, and it takes every inch of restraint not to slide my hands over them, grip the backs of them and pull her onto my lap. Leaning into me, her lips brush against my ear as she whispers, “It feels a bit like fate.”

Breaking our hands apart, my fingers trace along her jaw, before I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, pulling her into me. I hesitate, only for a moment, giving her a chance to tell me to stop, to say no. But instead, her hands slide around my waist, anchoring herself to me.

I start slowly. Planting a small kiss to her collarbone. Then, when she gasps lightly, I move along her neck and over her scar before dragging her earlobe softly between my teeth. Continuing, I work my way along her jaw, eliciting small gasps from her that leave me needing to readjust my pants. Finally, my lips hover over her mouth, the smell of jasmine invades my senses leaving me with a dizziness that rivals intoxication. Dipping my forehead down so it meets hers, my words come out more breathless than I imagined they would. “You can tell me to stop, Elora.” I’m not a praying man, but I pray she won’t.

---