Page 107 of Keeper

I nestleagainst Cenric and rest my head on his chest.

“Are you all right?” he asks as he runs his fingers through my hair.

I nod, knowing I cannot find the words to explain how I feel. The emotions swirl inside me. The joy. The contentment. The lingering pleasure, and the undercurrent of fear—fear that this moment will end sooner than I’d like.

“I love your hair.” As if to demonstrate how much he likes it, he catches a curl between his fingers.

I frown, thinking about how unruly my hair is. No matter how much I try to tame the curls, they are constantly escaping the braid. “I hate it.”

“Why? It’s beautiful and wild, just like you.”

The blanket rustles beneath me as I raise up enough to meet his eyes. “I’m not wild.”

“Yes, you are.” The corners of Cenric’s mouth lift into a heart-stopping smile. “You have fire inside you, Evie.”

I want to argue, but I can’t find the words. Maybe it’s because he’s right. Maybe I am a little wild sometimes. After all, I traveled for months to reach Karra. Of course, I had traveled with a caravan most of the way to stay with a group. Still, most women would never set out on that kind of journey alone.

I let my fingers wander across Cenric’s chest, tracing the lines and ridges that mark his skin. A thin, silvery scar curves along his collarbone. I follow its path, feeling the slightly raised skin beneath my fingertips.

My hand drifts lower, finding a jagged scar that stretches across his ribs. It’s wider than the others, the skin puckered and uneven. I wonder what kind of weapon could have left such a mark. As I explore, Cenric doesn’t flinch or pull away.

A cluster of small, circular scars dot his left shoulder. They’re old and faded, but I can still make out their shape.

Arrow wounds, perhaps?

I touch each one gently, imagining the battles he must have fought.

Cenric’s hand finds mine, and he brings our joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss against my knuckles. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that you must have fought in many battles.”

“I have.”

I trace my fingers along another scar on Cenric’s chest. “Does it hurt? To talk about them, I mean.”

“No. Not anymore.”

My hand moves lower, touching the jagged scar across his ribs. “Tell me about this one.”

His chest rises and falls beneath my hand as he takes a deep breath. “That was from my first real battle. I was barely fourteen summers old.”

Fourteen summers?

That’s far too young to go to war.

The blanket brushes against my arm as I lift myself up enough to touch the one on his eyebrow. “This one is my favorite.”

Mirth glints in his eyes. “Of course.”

“Well, I did give it to you. It’s only fair I claim it as my favorite.”

“Tell me, were you actually aiming for my head?”

A mocked gasp escapes me. “I’ll have you know I have impeccable aim.”

“So, you admit you were trying to injure me?”

“Maybe I wanted to leave my mark on you,” I tease.

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