Page 50 of A Court of Masks and Roses
Beyond the cave, the thunderstorm rages in full glory.
Trace’s smile dissolves and he watches me wearily. I wonder if he is yearning for Raza just now. I would be if I were him.Stars.No, I wouldn’t. Of course I wouldn’t. Because I’d have known better than to get involved with someone in the first place. And they with me.
I search my mind for words. Something appropriate. Something a man might say. “We should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to be hungry.” Mostly because it’s the onlyappropriate activity I can think of. My clothes, the ones Trace removed while I was unconscious, are little more than blood-soaked rags. I put them outside to let the rain wash off some of the gore and scoot to our small stack of provisions. A handful of dried meat strips, a canteen, the thin blanket I was lying on, and the cloak wrapped around me. We only have one. My hesitation is ludicrous, considering that his hands have been on my body all day. But it’s different now. I procrastinate another moment, then surrender to practicality and settle beside him. “Where did you learn to heal?” I ask, pushing food into his hand.
Trace takes the meat. Chews. Swallows. Shuts his eyes for a moment of respite. “Monastery of Qilar, like everyone else. You can see why healing is an unpopular field of study.”
“Is Leaf right about it being dangerous?”
Trace nods. “The training itself breaks most before they learn even minor skills.”
“It didn’t break you,” I say quietly.
Trace closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone. “Only because there was nothing left to break,” he says, so softly and distantly that I’m certain he meant to keep the thought to himself.
I let him believe he has.
After a moment, Trace takes hold of the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. “You need something to wear,” he says, holding it out to me.
I open my mouth to protest, but he is right. Besides my underclothes, the only thing I have for covering is Trace’s cloak. Trace turns his head while I pull the thick cotton tunic over my head, letting it fall down to my thighs like a dress. Thus clothed, I return to my slot beside him, maneuvering the cloak to cover both our bodies against the cold. Leaf’s heatcrystal lost its tune hours ago, and Trace can barely sit up, much less attempt to tune it again.
I shiver, hugging my knees and listening to the staccato of falling rain. It was raining when I first decided to go to that prisoner camp too. The cool drops landed on my nose, thethump, patter pattera prelude to what would come next. And then—
A bolt of lightning slices the air, silhouetting our wall of tree branches, before thunder cracks. My heart leaps.The crack of branches snapping beneath my captors’ boots is deafening in the evening rain. Prisoners’ silent, horrified eyes watch me. My blood—
“Frightened of lightning?” says Trace.
I gasp, focusing my eyes on him. My mouth is dry, my breath quick and ragged. I swallow. “No.” I clear my throat to get my damn lungs under control. My teeth chatter. “Just startled. And very cold.”
Trace reaches out a muscled arm, hesitates a moment, and then, with a decisive swoop, gathers me against his body. Settling me between his legs, Trace wraps his arms around me, pressing my back against his chest. The smell of him—the lingering lavender soap and the stronger musk of sweat, leather, and steel—fills my nose and lungs. The heat from Trace’s chest seeps through the single layer of fabric between us, warming my shivering muscles. I let myself melt into him and feel Trace’s slow breath caress my ear.
Stars, it feels good. Blissfully, sinfully good. Like a cocoon of strength and warmth and concern wrapped around my soul.
I bite my lip. It is cold and Trace is practical. And with Raza. I would be a fool to forget that. Ignoring the feel of Trace’s arms, I focus my attention on the steady rhythm of his breathing, letting my own match his. “Why did you come after me?” I whisper into the cold.
Trace’s arms tighten around me, pulling me closer. “I was afraid something had happened.” His voice is soft. “That you were hurt. I couldn’t not go. Not when it was my fault you left.”
“It wasn’t your fault at all,” I mutter, resting my cheek against Trace’s bicep until my eyes finally drift closed.
Only to pop open a second later, quick as a child’s toy. My heart thunders.
“What is it?” Trace asks.
“Nothing.” I rub my face. It is nothing. Just my body adjusting. “The storm is keeping me up.”
“It’s not the storm,” Trace says tiredly. “Trust me.”
I ignore him.
“Suit yourself,” says Trace. Within minutes, the stillness of his body informs me that at least one of us is smart enough to sleep when he can.
I watch the darkness. Lightning sears the sky again. I brace myself for the coming thunder, but jump all the same when it comes. Trace startles awake.
“Sorry.” I scrub my face. “The noise just...”
