Page 38 of Blood Weaver
Ronan peered at me and sighed. “Honestly, I don’t blame him.” He turned his gaze to the night sky visible outside the cave’s entrance. “He’s in love with you. He has been ever since you were young.”
My eyes widened. “How do you know?”
He scoffed. “It’s obvious. He wouldn’t go through all this trouble if he wasn’t. He’s a prince of Eldwain. He has no business in Valoria, yet he was leading their army to find you.”
Well, I guess it was obvious to everyone except me.
“He wasn’t always like this,” I countered. “He was very gentle as a child. I don’t know what changed.”
“Your disappearance, for starters.” Ronan peered over at me. “Do you know what’s been going on in Eldwain lately?”
I frowned. “Issomething going on?”
Ronan laughed and threw his head back. “Caelan’s brothers are fighting for the Eldwain throne. Their father is ill and isn’t expected to survive the year, but he hasn’t named his successor.”
“I didn’t know,” I muttered sheepishly.
“Of course not,” he said. “You’re hidden away in the neutral territory of the Central Plains, where information on surrounding nations doesn’t filter in.”
I hesitated and tried to figure out how to frame my question. “Do you know if Caelan is trying to—”
“He’s not,” Ronan answered before I could finish. “He has no interest in the Eldwain throne. He’s spent most of his life in Valoria, trying to hide from all the spectacle and politics of it. That’s why his brothers don’t think he’s a threat.”
I frowned. “Do you think otherwise?”
Ronan nodded. “Caelan has the support of Valoria, since he’s spent many years there. Your parents are his primary backers, which guarantees their countries will have strong ties. As such, his father may choose him, after all.”
I’d purposefully tried to insulate myself in Lomewood and not keep up with the world around me, though I hungrily listened for any scraps about what was going on in Valoria. But even that was hard to find in the Central Plains.
“But all Caelan cares about is …you.” Ronan looked down at me and furrowed his brows. “Why did you come tonight? You could have stayed in Lomewood where it’s safe and he never would have singled you out.”
I sighed and pulled at the fraying hem of my shirt. “I owed you … for the other night with the bandits.”
Ronan laughed. “Well, I think you paid me back with interest. You nearly got yourself killed.”
I shook my head. “He wouldn’t have killed me.”
“You don’t know that, Leila. Don’t put so much faith in Caelan. He’s known for being ruthless. He doesn’t know you’re a blood mage, so he probably thinks he killed you.”
“I’m tired …” Overwhelmed and overstimulated, my desire to continue the discussion quickly evaporated. Mainly becausedeep down, the reality that Ronan was right danced mockingly in front of me; a truth I wasn’t prepared to accept.
“Here, lay down.” He helped me adjust and lay on a bed of leaves.
I tried to curl into a fetal position to conserve warmth, a grimace painting my features as pain sent tremors rocketing through me. I turned away from him, the dampness of my clothes a cold, clinging reminder of earlier events. The chill gnawed at my bones, and despite my best efforts to wrap my arms around my midsection, the icy air was unforgiving.
I felt Ronan’s presence behind me on my bed of leaves an instant before his enveloping warmth met my back. His arm encircled my waist and drew me closer.
“What are you doing …?” I started. Even though my voice held a faint tinge of resistance, his hold tightened and anchored me to the sanctuary of his warmth.
“Stay still.” His whisper, gentle yet insistent, graced my ear. “Our clothes are wet, and the night is unforgiving. Body heat is all we have.” Uncomfortable yet secure, I stiffened against him, the memory of our lips meeting earlier conflicting with my sense of propriety. “Relax, Leila, I’m not going to do anything … unless you want me to.” His teasing voice was a darkened whisper laced with playful intent.
“That’ll never happen,” I muttered.
He chuckled. “I mean … we could transfer our body heat better if we were naked and out of these wet clothes … for survival and all.”
“Keep dreaming,” I retorted weakly, my attempt to elbow him failing in the echo of his low laughter.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on my forearm, the touch feather-light and surprisingly soothing. The sensation was hypnotic, making it hard to maintain the walls I'd built. “Yourheart's racing,” he murmured, his mouth close enough that I could feel the vibrations of his voice against my skin.
