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touching him again. She
sat on the edge of the bed, as close as she dared, and studied his
face. He didn’t look that dangerous. In fact, he looked more feral
than dangerous, and wild creatures could be tamed.
Sometimes.
    Dark elf. She mouthed the words
silently, not knowing his name. The shadows in the room caressed
him as though they knew him and for a brief moment, she envied the
darkness.
    She slid her hand behind his head.
He moaned softly, but this time she didn’t jump. He wouldn’t hurt
her for helping him, would he? She lifted his head enough to bring
the mug to his mouth, trying not to think about the silkiness of
his hair between her fingers or the lushness of his lips. She
trickled as much of the liquid as she could into him, then eased
his head back onto the pillow.
    The last few ribbons of blue-black
hair slipped through her fingers. She reached for the cloth, eager
to occupy her hands with something else besides him. No, not eager.
Reluctant, for in truth his skin infected her with the desire to
touch, the urge to caress. She shook her head. This was not the
proper behavior for a healer.
    She mopped the sweat from his brow
with the cool linen and left, taking his shirt with her to wash.
The cottage was too dark. She slashed her hand through the air.
Small flames flickered to life in response, the pair of candles on
the mantel, the tableside lamp by her chair. Better. The light
calmed her.
    His life relied on the healing power
of the elixir now. She had no intention of using her gifts to heal
him. None. Ever. Tyber had said dark elves had their own magic, and
she knew too little about the alchemy of such things to chance
clashing with whatever power flowed through him. It simply wasn’t a
risk worth taking.
     

Chapter Three
     
    A concert of drum-pounding pixies
played in Ertemis’s head. What tavern had he spent last night in?
The Dirty Dwarf? The Fig and Gristle? Nay, neither of those was
right. He opened his eyes a slit.
    “What the...” He sat up too quickly,
and the pixies pounded harder.
    If this was an inn, it was one of
the nicest he’d slept in of late. The room was sparse but clean.
And wretchedly sunny. It wasn’t like him to leave the curtains
open. It also smelled better than any place he’d ever stayed. He
smelled food – hot griddlecakes and smoked trout by the scent of
it.
    “That will do nicely.” He swung his
legs around and the instant his bare feet hit the floor, he
realized he had been undressed and stripped of both sword and
Feyre. Someone had disrobed him down to his trousers. He inhaled,
then lifted his hands to his face and sniffed. The scent of a woman
lingered on his skin, his hair.
    Wanting more information, he stood
near the door and listened. Only soft muffled sounds reached his
ears. He imagined a plump cook bustling about. Plump cooks always
made the best food.
    He tried to sense more, sending
tendrils of magic into his surroundings, but a wall of mist drifted
around him. He blamed his overindulgence, although he still
couldn’t recall the tavern responsible.
    The door opened without a sound. Two
chairs sat in front of a fireplace, a basket of knitting next to
one. A braided scrap rug covered a stone floor. The room was simple
and tidy. This was not a tavern. Where was he?
    Wonderful smells wafted through a
doorway on the far wall. A woman hummed an unfamiliar tune. He
followed his nose into the kitchen and there she stood. With her
back to him, she alternated between slicing seedberries and
flipping griddlecakes.
    He inhaled, her scent filling his
nose. She was the one who’d undressed him. Pity he didn’t couldn’t
remember what else she’d done to him.
    A sly smile lifted the corners of
his mouth, and he moved closer. He’d not had a woman in ages for
many reasons, but he complimented himself on the one he’d picked to
break his fast. From the back, she looked a fair prize. Tall for a
woman, but well shaped – even her loose tunic couldn’t hide a
slender