Page 51 of Stolen

“I think so.” He hesitated. “As we neared the barrier, you read my mind.”

The memory of those last few moments in the Thicket flashed before me. Uneasiness settled over me like a thick blanket. “I couldn’t tell which thoughts were mine and which were his.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Varick murmured. “I think it was Midian in your head, not Arrol.”

My uneasiness grew. “Why do you think that?”

“The thoughts you pulled from my mind were things only Midian could have known. Thoughts he read from me when I was at my weakest and couldn’t fight him off.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, my throat tightening.

“I wish I knew. Maybe he could only connect with you because you were still inside the Thicket.” His frown deepened. “But I think we have to acknowledge there’s a possibility his blood could affect you somehow, even beyond the barrier.”

I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I didn’t want anything to do with Midian—or Eldenvalla—ever again. Because that heritage was tainted. Knitted onto my soul, as Rhys had put it. But how could I deny it when I’d seen Avenor and Vara in the Hall of Statues? “It still dwells within me,” she’d said. A demon. And she’d passed it onto her child—and all the way down to me.

And now I carried Midian’s blood.

“Hey,” Varick said. He leaned forward, his golden eyes steady. “Whatever you’re thinking, get rid of that thought.” He drew a deep breath. “For a long time, I believed I was…wrong inside. I based that belief on a bunch of old books and the garbage I dealt with growing up with my father.” He lowered his head for a moment, his gaze on his hands. When he looked up, regret shaded his eyes. “And then I met you and knew we were the same. But I judged you unfairly. I expected you to be wrong inside, too, and I refused to accept anything else.”

I sat up. “Oh, Varick,” I murmured. “You’re not wrong inside. If you were, you wouldn’t have been so repulsed by Midian and the others. Don’t you see that now?”

Another deep breath, this one ending with a weary-sounding exhale. “I think maybe I’m starting to.”

I smiled. “Well, that’s a start.”

A hint of a smile touched his lips. “We can figure the hard things out later. Right now, you’re safe, and I’m going to make sure you stay that way.”

He would. His big, solid presence had never been more reassuring than it was right now. “I know you will,” I said softly.

We stared at each other. His gaze dipped briefly to my mouth, and then he cleared his throat. “If you’re feeling up to it, you should eat something.”

My stomach growled, prompting me to look down at myself for the first time. The blanket had dropped to my waist when I sat up, and now cool air touched my shoulders. I wore my thin chemise and nothing else. My nipples puckered against the flimsy, see-through fabric.

Varick glanced away.

I couldn’t blame him. I was a mess, with twigs in my hair and dirt-encrusted fingernails. The chemise was as grubby as the rest of me. I plucked the fabric away from my skin and ran my gaze down my body. “Ugh. I need a bath.”

“Do you want one?”

I jerked my head up. “Do you have one?” I breathed.

Golden eyes crinkled at the corners, and I experienced the full force of a genuine smile from Varick of Lar Keiren. “I might. But I want you to eat something first.”

Right on cue, my stomach growled like a wild beast. His smile became a grin, the tips of his white fangs framed by several days’ worth of golden beard that made my stomach do odd flips.

“Give me a minute.” He rose and went to a small, stone hearth, where meat was cooking over the fire. My gown and stockings were stretched over a drying rack next to the hearth. As he turned the spit, I took the opportunity to study our surroundings.

We were in a one-room hut. Its sod walls were primitive, but the floor was made of solid wooden planks, and someone had obviously taken care to make the inside comfortable. The bed I sat in boasted a carved footboard, and the single window was fitted with wavy glass. Through it, blurry trees and snow were visible.

“How long have we been here?” I asked.

“About twelve hours based on the position of the sun.” Varick turned from the hearth with a plate and a wooden cup in his hands. His clothes were ripped and rumpled, but they looked clean. His hair was clean, too, the thick waves glinting with winter sunlight as he hooked a foot around a nearby chair and pulled it over. He sat and handed me the cup. “Blood first.”

“Did you sleep?” It occurred to me that the bed was far too small for both of us.

He grunted an affirmative. “I caught a few hours on the floor.”

“The floor?”

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