Filed to story: When the Moon Hatched Book
“I’m not particularly fond of being seen with you either. Not unless I’m toting a pike with your head on the end.”
He lumps another vegetable on the pile without shaking it off, dusting me in soil that peppers my hair and clings to my damp skin.
Maybe he’s getting sick of me …
Good.
I’ll keep agitating him until he drops his guard, then make a move. I quite like my chances of surviving in these mountains, given the abundance of water and fertile vegetation. In fact, I’ll probably thrive
—gather my strength as I move south. I think these mountains finally kneel somewhere near Bhoggith. Perhaps if I charm a full-grown Moltenmaw, I can easily hunt Rekk Zharos. My options are endless now that I’m free.
Well …
My thoughts drift to my rope-bound wrists. To the nulling iron cuffs still locked around my arms and ankles.
Almost free.
First, I have to get away from this male and his dragon and these filthy
Creators-damn vegetables. And this cozy little house with its pretty, idyllic view and a warmth that tells me it’s held so much more happiness than I’ll ever understand.
“I think we have enough,” Kaan rumbles, placing a flush of herbs atop the pile before I hear him gather his saddlebags, the sound of his heavy boot steps making my ears twitch. “Follow me.”
Ahh …
“How?”
“Tether yourself to the alluring tone of my voice,” he drawls, and I roll my eyes, tentatively following the sound of his steps instead—sliding my bare feet through the fluffy grass at a slow and steady pace in the effort not to trip.
I crash right into the back of him and dust myself in another layer of dirt, suppressing a cough so I don’t drop anything. I wait for him to place his bags on the ground, then unlock the door, hearing the squeal of metal hinges before he shifts out of my way.
I’m about to step into the dwelling when he says, “Wait. I’ll unpack you first. Don’t want you dragging more dirt across the rug than necessary.”
“Ever heard of a bucket? You just threw me in a pool and tossed a bar of soap at my head. Now I’m more filthy than I was before.”
“No,” he grinds out, relieving me of my pile one bulbous, overgrown root vegetable at a time. “Before, you smelled like spew, rage, and dead things. Now you smell like soil. This smell calms me.”
“You don’t seem particularly calm.”
He removes the final vegetable, transferring it into a large wooden bowl with all the rest of the produce. “I’m calm.” He cuts me a dark look. “You’ve just been lucky enough to avoid witnessing my other temperaments.”
Yet.
The unsaid word slams between us like a gavel.
I hold his pointed stare, clumps of dirt rolling down my cheek and falling from my jawline. I, too, have many temperaments I’d like to test against his not calm.
Grunting, he severs our stare-off and strides through the room.
I attempt to brush myself down, flicking more dirt onto the grass while I take in the dwelling’s cozy, eclectic interior, rich with a soft assortment of organic furnishings—mostly in Burn tones.
Burnt orange, warm umber, black, bronze …
A large kitchen takes up half the floor, bearing three long benches that run the walls in the shape of a giant U. There’s a butcher block that breaks the space in two, the right half of the room garnished with two low seaters and a small table—all without any gaps beneath. Like they were grown from the ground, embellished with plump cushions and tufted throws.
A crooked staircase on the right leads to what must be the second level. My gaze cuts to the windows—tawny glass that’s distorting to look through. Quirky and organic like the rest of this tiny home.
What really catches my eye are the stone carvings lining the windowsills. Sabersythes in all shapes and sizes, though no bigger than my fist. No two are the same, some bearing more tusks than others, more or less spears adorning the tips of their tails. Almost as if they have little lives and personalities of their own.
“What is this place?” I ask, stuck on the threshold.
“It was Mah’s retreat,” Kaan says from his spot before the basin, rinsing a vegetable beneath the gushing tap. He places it in a different bowl, then grabs another, drenching it.
Was …
I didn’t know his mah had passed. Have never researched The Burn’s reigning history beyond the fact that the three Vaegor brothers each rule one of the three kingdoms.
Now I wish I had.
I glance around, failing to shift the heaviness now sitting on my chest, crushing my ability to breathe properly. “Is there somewhere else I can spend the slumber?”
He pauses what he’s doing, turning his head the slightest amount as he says, “Somewhere else?”
Feels wrong to step into a female’s warm, homely dwelling when I’ve fantasized about killing her son.
“This feels like a family space,” I murmur, taking in the artwork littering the walls. The crooked alcoves and shelves packed full of bits and pieces that can only be precious memorabilia. “I’m not family.”
Kaan’s coarse growl fills the space so abruptly I jolt, stare whipping back to him as he says, “Get in the dwelling, Prisoner Seventy-Three. Or you’ll miss out on this meal.”
His shoulders appear taut and stiff, and there’s a tension in the air that makes it hard to inhale. Part of me wants to tell him to choke on the order he just gave me and die a painful death, but then my stomach rumbles loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon.
He raises a brow.
I roll my eyes. Chew my bottom lip. Try to wriggle this situation into a spot that fits comfortably beneath my ribs.
I don’t know a lot about northern traditions, but I once read that it’s considered rude not to offer something in exchange for shelter. Maybe that’s the answer. And maybe I shouldn’t shed Kaan’s blood while staying here.
That would feel wrong, I think.
“I have nothing to gift in exchange for the time spent under your mah’s roof.”
There’s a moment of utter stillness before Kaan turns his head a little more—just enough for our eyes to meet. “Your name will do.”
My name …
I open my mouth, shutting it as I reconsider, then shake my head and blurt, “Raeve.”
All the color drains from his face.
He pulls a breath—slow. Like he’s consuming a meal he’s been looking forward to for longer than I care to admit. “Just Raeve?”
Another name sizzles through my soul like a burning scream.
Fire Lark.
Fire Lark.
Fire Lark.
“Just Raeve,” I say, stuffing the other down. Far away.
Gone.
He nods slowly, the ball in his throat rolling. “Well, thank you for the offering,” he says, followed by a soft, “Raeve. Please, enter my mah’s dwelling.”
He handles my name with such care and precision a shiver rakes up and down my spine—a sensation I try to ignore, stepping over the threshold and into the space that feels much like a warm hug. Perhaps the reason it chafes. Haven’t had one of those since—
Clearing my throat, I lift my chin and move toward the butcher block, sitting atop one of the three knobbly stools that each appear to be carved from a single stump of wood, placing my bound hands on the counter.
Kaan resumes his rinsing, time ticking by. He finishes cleaning the vegetables, dices them with a blade I duly note the location of, then piles them into a large pot with water, herbs, and salt. He sets it on the stove and clunks a lid on it.
He opens the small grated door of the stove’s plump metal belly, then pulls a weald from his pocket and flicks the hood. I cast my attention elsewhere as he whispers a sizzling word that coaxes a bulb of flame through the opening, kindling the prepacked pile of sticks into a roaring flame.
Closing the metal grate, he turns, his warm gaze roaming the side of my face while I stare out one of the windows to the world beyond. The room darkens by the moment—more and more clouds crowding the sky, sponging most of the light bar the flickers of orange spilling through the grill.