Page 30 of Tusk Love

Oskar didn’t notice Guinevere standing there for several long moments, which was just as well, because it gave her time to collect herself. Unfortunately, she didn’t do a very good job of it, because—

—when he caught sight of her and straightened up, lowering the axe, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners as his lips curved into a lopsided little grin—

—she all but fell to pieces at his feet.

Twenty years of existence, and how could she never have known about someone like him?

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he drawled. “How’s your head?”

“Oh, Oskar,” she said plaintively, because it was all she could think to say.

His grin widened. The years fell away from his face. Oh, to have him like this forever—boyish, rumpled, lighthearted. And shirtless. Mustn’t forget shirtless.

“And what have we learned?” he asked.

“That ale is devil’s water,” she murmured.

“Good.” He nodded toward the inn. “I’m almost done. Go back inside and rest while you can. There’s around two days’ worth of travel between us and the next city.”

“What if…what if the mercenaries attack again?” Even just saying it made her look around, half afraid that her words would conjure them.

“Ambushing someone in Labenda would be like setting fire to yourself to kill a vampire,” said Oskar. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about until we’re back on the Amber Road. And even then, I’ll be ready for them.”

He was one man against several. It was ridiculous to feel assuaged. And yet, somehow, she was. Somehow, she understood, deep in the marrow of her bones, that Oskar would never let anything happen to her.

He cast an assessing look at the bits of sky visible through the gaps in the trees, gauging the time, and went back to chopping. His brawny arms swung, and the axe sang, and one chunk of wood after anothersplit on the stump as effortlessly as though he were merely sinking a knife through butter.

Guinevere castigated herself for being the worst kind of voyeur as she just stood there, watching his shoulders roll like mountains and the sweat glisten on his forest skin. But it was physically impossible for her to turn away.

At least—until Teinidh startedpurring.

Guinevere wished she could reach inside and put her hand over the wildfire spirit’s eyes. Given the impossibility of that, she settled for retreating into the Drowned Nest with acerbic haste.

So possessive,Teinidh chided her.Not very sisterly of you to stop me from appreciating a handsome man.

I’m fairly certain no sister of mine would have singed off Mother’s eyebrows.Guinevere still remembered being locked in her room for three days thanks to that fiasco.

She was shouting and shaking you because you refused to give up your totem. You didn’t understand why she hated you so much.Teinidh shrugged lazily.I was protecting us the only way I knew how.

The rest of the journeythrough Labenda was uneventful. Guinevere supposed that it might have to do with the fact that they were on the Byway, which was riddled with the tracks of horses and carts. The swamp’s fauna would have learned to steer clear. She sometimes got the impression that they were being watched, but Oskar seemed unconcerned when she brought it up.

“Probably just that treehugger making sure I don’t litter in his precious swamp.”

“Treehugger?” She relaxed against him, rocked gently by Vindicator’s steady pace. “Oh, you mean Elaras. He was nice, wasn’t he?”

Oskar made a noncommittal rumble in the back of his throat. Guinevere wondered if he was uncomfortable with her basically using him as an armchair; she attempted to straighten up in the saddle, buthe curved an arm in front of her stomach in response, keeping her there. She subsided with a happy little sigh.

“Oskar,” she said, “about last night—thank you. For taking care of me. And for not…you know.”

She hadn’t been lying when she said she liked kissing him, but she didn’t know how she would have felt doing it with her mind all muddled from the ale. This thing between them—it was so new. Completely uncharted territory, as terrifying sometimes as it was exhilarating.

“No need to thank me.” His tone sounded vaguely bleak. “You deserve to be treated right. No one should be taking liberties. Not even Lord Whistledong.”

She didn’t bother to correct him. Her mood had once again soured at the reminder that she had a betrothed waiting for her on the Menagerie Coast.

By midmorning of the nextday, the swamp had blurred back into temperate red-gold forest, and Guinevere was in dire need of a bath.

She’d slathered herself in salve the previous afternoon. Oskar had kept his promise and bought a small round tin of the stuff before they set off from Berleben, and itwaseffective—in both soothing her existing bites and staving off new ones. She swore that she’d seen more than a few of the tiny insects shrivel and fall to the ground the instant they came into contact with her skin. Whichever enterprising Berleben native had invented the salve was a mad genius.

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