The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) (28 page)

I wander to the bench and fall onto it with a sigh. I am not used to lounging in gardens, but I think I could enjoy this. A breeze wafts over me, stirring my hair.

All my thoughts, all the disturbing new facts I had planned to assimilate, float away. I am empty and glad to be so. For a few moments, I will not think.

I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until someone nudges me. I sit up with a start, wincing at the crick in my neck. I blink Bran into focus.

I stifle a yawn. “How’s Logan?”

Bran plops down beside me. “Sleeping. After the first two hours, he wouldn’t settle, so the physician gave him a poppy tea. I’ll check on him soon.”

I nod, rubbing an impression of the carved bench from my cheek. Chilled by the spring air and the stone bench, I pull my knees up in front of me for warmth.

Bran picks at a loose thread on his sleeve and twists it between his fingers. “He cares for you very much.”

I study Bran’s face as he stares blindly at the pond, the thread still twisting in his fingers. “And what do you think of that?”

“That it means trouble.”

My heart sinks. Of course he’s right, and of course he thinks that, but it still hurts. Can’t we ignore reality for one moment?

“But. I do like you, Astarti. And you are so good for him, even though it’s against our customs. And laws.” He shakes his head. “You have no idea how good you are for him.”

My heart flutters with hope. “What do you mean?”

His brow wrinkles as he considers his answer. “He’s more centered. He’s moving forward instead of back. Things have been hard for him, since our father died.” He grunts. “They were hard before that, but our father’s death only made things worse.”

I hesitate with my question, afraid he won’t tell me, won’t trust me. “Why were they hard? Why is he so...different?”

Bran draws up a knee, knits his fingers. I recognize uncertainty, but is he uncertain of his answer? Or just of sharing it with me?

“The truth is that no one knows, least of all Logan himself. My mother, perhaps, might know, but she has never said.”

Bran gives me a moment to puzzle over that. Why would his mother know if no one else does? Comprehension dawns. “You think he’s a—” I stop, refusing to say the word “bastard.”

“Some say that. But even that doesn’t account for everything.”

I lean forward with a question, but Bran puts up a hand. “Trust me, there’s nothing you could ask that I haven’t, and I have no answers for you.”

I sit back, frustrated. “But you still care for him.”

He’s offended. “Of course.”

“Aron doesn’t.”

“Oh, Aron cares for him, don’t doubt that. But Aron doesn’t know how to handle him. To be fair, Aron’s not alone in that. Logan is very difficult. He refuses to behave like the rest of us, to think like the rest of us. I don’t know, maybe he can’t? But Aron also has issues of his own. He feels he should have been able to save our father, that he should have been there. He and Logan have been fighting over who should feel the worst guilt for five years now.” He shrugs. “A pointless argument.”

“And what about you?”

Bran’s eyes harden. “I know there’s only one person to blame, and it’s not Logan or Aron.”

I draw back, stung. It will always come back to this. My Leash may be cut, but I will never really be free of it.

Bran puts a hand on my knee. “I mean Belos, Astarti. I do not hold you to blame.”

I feel myself melt, and I am shocked by my own need to hear such words. Bran pulls me to him. Because I am weak, I give in and lean against his shoulder.

* * *

When Bran leaves to check on Logan, I wander along the garden path and back to my rooms, where someone has left a gleaming silver tray. I peek under one of the round silver covers, which releases curls of steam and scents of beef and rosemary. I grab a blanket from a chair. The slippery silk won’t stay on my shoulders, so I tie two corners in an inelegant knot and wear it like a cape. I set to work on the food, slathering butter on a heel of fresh bread. I groan as I stuff the soft, delicious thing into my mouth. I cut into the beef and dab it in the thick gravy.

When my full belly is pressing uncomfortably against my waistband, I explore the further rooms, finding a bathing chamber with gray and white tiles and a huge porcelain tub. I go to the hallway door, planning to seek out some hot water. A young pageboy is sitting on a stool right outside my door, his swinging legs indicating boredom. He jumps up and nods when I tell him what I want. He takes off at a brisk walk, his short legs showing how he longs to break into a run.

When maids come bearing buckets of steaming water, I thank them for their trouble, and they stare at me. I guess most of the inhabitants here expect to be waited on. When they ask whether I want help, it’s my turn to stare. I assure them I can take my own bath. As they leave, I shudder at the thought of anyone helping me bathe.

I strip off my clothes and slip into the steaming water. The heat soaks into me, driving out the chill of the garden. I have never been in a bathing tub so big. Leaning against the high back, my feet don’t even reach the other end. I let one foot rise to break the water’s surface and sigh at the luxury. I grab a bar of rose-scented soap from the tray beside the tub and work it in my hands until I have a bubbling lather.

When I’ve finished my bath and returned to the bedroom, I find a pile of folded clothes on the bed. I am disturbed that someone entered my rooms without my notice. I cannot let these little luxuries make me so careless; I will have to pay more attention.

I sort through the clothes, which are mostly dresses, until I find a pair of black riding breeches and a loose, pale blue silk blouse. The colors are dramatic with my dark hair, and the shirt drapes elegantly. I frown when I look at myself in the huge tilting mirror. Who do they think I am to wear such fine clothes? My eyebrows jump with sudden realization. For the first time it occurs to me that I am, apparently, the daughter of a king. I am, actually, his oldest child. I step away from the mirror guiltily. No, I won’t think of myself that way.

I go to the door to Logan’s rooms and ease it open. I tiptoe into the bedroom, where the curtains are drawn to keep the room dim. I look for Bran, but he’s gone. Logan is sleeping, and I creep silently to his side. With his face relaxed in sleep, he looks so much younger. All the tension is gone. Seeing him like this I realize how troubled his face usually is.

Above the edge of the blanket, I can see the deep bruising developing across his right shoulder. His eyelids flutter open. He raises his hand, lifting the sling. I ease his hand down. His eyes close, and he’s asleep again.

I sit in the chair by the bed, where Bran has clearly been sitting. I prop my feet on the edge of the mattress and lean back.

At some point, Bran ducks his head through the door. Seeing me, he nods and disappears again.

As I watch Logan sleep, I memorize his face. He is so gorgeous that my chest aches with it. It occurs to me that I should stop staring, that it might be wrong of me, but I can’t stop. I want to look at him, to take him in with my eyes. I don’t ever want to let go of this moment, of the knowledge that buzzes so warmly within me: he came after me. He was worried about me and got into a stupid fight over it. He wouldn’t let me go alone with Heborian, even when he must have known his injuries made him useless. It doesn’t matter that he couldn’t have helped me. It was that he wanted to, that it meant so much to him to stay with me. No one, no one, no one has ever cared about me like that before.

* * *

It’s evening when Logan wakes. The sun has slid away and the room is dark. My eyes are used to the dimness, so I see him stir. I can even make out the shape of his torso when he sits up. He starts when he notices me.

“Sorry,” I say. I should have known a figure in the dark would startle him.

“Astarti.”

I love the way my name sounds when he says it, like each syllable matters.

I get up and use flint and steel to strike flame into the lantern on the side table. Golden light blooms over the bed. Logan tosses the covers aside and swings his legs out.

“Easy,” I chide when he has to catch himself against one of the bedposts. I make him sit. I check the sling, my fingers avoiding his skin. I am all too aware of the brush of fabric and the occasional brief touch of warm flesh.

He assures me, “I’m just groggy.”

I look at him skeptically, but he does seem better. The bruise on his jaw is darkening, and his shoulder is an ugly mess of purple, but his eyes are a clear blue, edged with green.

It was easy to watch him sleep, to think about how beautiful he is, about how much he has come to mean to me, but now that he’s awake I don’t know what to say.

He takes my hand, stroking my fingers. Shivers of pleasure shoot up my arm and through my body.

He plays with one of my fingers. “I was terrified when you were gone. Please don’t run off like that ever again. You should have come to get me.”

“I didn’t think about it,” I say honestly.

“Well, think about it next time, all right?” His voice is surprisingly petulant.

“Promise me something in return.”

He eyes me warily, not promising.

“Don’t get into any more stupid fights where you could get hurt.”

“There were eight of them,” he says defensively.

“That’s why I called it a stupid fight.”

He grins, and I have to laugh because I love his grin—fleeting, rare, mischievous.

We look at each other for too long, and I know my expression must be intensifying as Logan’s is, shifting from playful to serious. An ache forms in my chest as the full truth, which I have been working so hard to deny, hits me with sudden force. This one moment of letting my guard down, one moment of watching my feelings reflected in his eyes, and I know: I love him. It’s wrong, it’s a disaster, but it’s true.

I reach out tentatively and touch his hair, which is soft even though it’s messy. His eyes swirl blue and green at the touch. His gaze is so hot, so full of longing and need that my breath catches.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” I say softly.

He looks away, but I turn his face back to me with gentle fingers. He is pained, worried, and I am suddenly furious that he’s been made to feel ashamed of something so extraordinary.

I say again, “They are beautiful.”

He lets out a shuddering breath and stands. He is tall, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. Gold edges through the blue and green of his eyes. I stare in wonder, letting myself look at them directly, as I have not allowed myself to do before. His left hand comes to rest on my hip, and I am intensely aware of the narrow space between us. I reach my hands up to his chest, and his muscles tighten at my touch. I draw a sharp breath at the shock of pleasure the touch sends through me. Logan goes still, breath held.

Cautiously, shakily, I draw my hand across the curved planes of his chest, under the sling to trace his arcing scar. His heart quickens, throbbing under my hand. He breathes again, shallowly, chest rising and falling as I work my hand across the planes of muscle. A buzz of energy, almost like the Drift, tingles through my fingers where they touch him and spikes along my arms into my body.

When I trail my hand down the notched muscles of his belly, he lets out a soft moan. My fingers brush the band of his pants, where the hard cut of muscle shows at his hip. He sucks in a sharp breath.

His right hand is immobilized by the sling, but his left skims from my back to my buttocks, and he pulls me against him. My pulse races as his hand brushes my side and hip and up my back again. Careful of his injured shoulder, I explore his back with my hands in turn, feeling the ridges of muscle, the flat plates of his shoulder blades, the lines of his scars. He flinches when I touch the scars, and I draw back a little to see his face. His eyes are filled almost entirely with gold now, something I have never seen before, but green edges back through them. I have never been with a man before and I realize suddenly how much trust it takes, on both our parts.

The tension leaves him, and he leans down and kisses me. His lips are soft but insistent, and I find myself opening to him. Yes, I want this. I want him.

But I stop. I push him back.

He gives in reluctantly.

“I don’t want you to be Stricken because of me.”

His eyes swirl with green, chasing away the gold. “I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“I
don’t
.”

“But I
do
.”

He groans and turns away, free hand planted on the bed. His body is shaking.

But then, so is mine.

I touch his back and he moans softly. “You are torturing me.”

I take my hand back. His head hangs, and he takes three deep breaths. He’s getting control of himself.

When he stands up and faces me again, his eyes are still a raging battle of color, but his body has gone still. I worry briefly that he’s angry with me, but he traces a lock of hair down my face. His eyes are hungry, unsatisfied. He is full of such fierce need, and something deeply primal in me answers to him. My hand, with a mind of its own, reaches out and touches his belly. He flinches.

“Please...go,” he says brokenly. “I can’t—I can’t look at you and not want you right now.”

I swallow hard. I don’t want to leave.

“Please.”

I turn and flee.

Chapter 29

I PACE MY rooms. Part of me hopes Logan will come to the door, because I want to be foolish and selfish, because I want to not care about his people’s stupid rules. But he doesn’t.

When my feet are sore and aching, I strip off my clothes, drag on a loose nightgown, and climb into the spacious bed.

I toss and turn in a froth of blankets. I get up and pace again, the cool night air chilling my bare arms. I stop repeatedly at the door to Logan’s room. Has he gone to bed? Is he sleeping? Or is he pacing like I am?

There is no light and no sound, so perhaps it’s just me. I return to bed, frustrated.

I doze, shifting in and out of sleep.