Page 72 of The Blight of Hollowmire

A twig snaps behind me and I whirl around. Ordinarily, I would have noticed Renard's approach long before he reached the clearing, but clearly, I’ve been distracted.

He stands at the edge of the clearing, still a bit worn and tired from his restless night. His silver and gold hair is mussed from sleep, and his beard has grown in a bit since I first dragged him half-dead from Hollowmire. Much to my annoyance, the additional scruff only improves matters.

Some men look disreputable with a beard. Renard merely looks more like Renard.

Of late, I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time considering precisely what sort of man appeals to me. Unfortunately, the answer is broad-shouldered, stubborn, honorable to the point of self-destruction, and decorated with battle scars and silver hairs.

A frustrating revelation, all in all. I had hoped to spend a considerable portion of my life in a cottage by the sea, where I could chuck any male trespassers over the cliffs to the gathering leviathans below. That feels… unlikely, now.

Renard’s gaze drifts over the clearing, taking in the mushrooms, the moss, and the collection of insects currently occupying a fallen log near my feet.

“You shouldn’t wander off alone,” he says, and I feel my ire rise that still he treats me like I’m a child, or like he has the right.

“Because you’re afraid I won’t be around to protect you from another attack? Fear not. I’m close enough to rush back to the inn if necessary.”

Renard folds his arms across his chest and scowls.

The posture would be less distracting if I hadn't spent the better part of the last week cataloging precisely how broad his shoulders are.

“Perhaps it is you who shouldn’t wander off alone,” I return, peevish and out of sorts. “I’d hate to think what might happen should your undeniable masculine urges surface and threaten your irrepressible chivalry.”

Renard’s cheeks flame and he swears under his breath. I’d meant to get a rise from him, but he seems genuinely embarrassed by being caught in the act of addressing his needs. Humans have such odd sensibilities.

He turns to leave, but I stop him.

“Renard.”

His attention returns immediately.

“What?” he grunts.

“What happened last night?”

“I told you what happened,” he says carefully.

“No.”

I fold my arms. “You provided a summary suitable for a council report.”

His brow furrows. “I hardly think⁠—”

“I woke up on top of you, taking liberties, and somehow ended up with the taste of your blood in my mouth. You said the Blight Mother paid you a visit. The events are hardly connecting for me.”

“Do you truly remember nothing?”

“We certainly wouldn’t be having this horribly awkward conversation if I did,” I point out.

Renard stares. I stare back. Neither of us speaks. Above us, the wind stirs the branches. For the briefest of moments, I begin to think he will ignore the question and simply return to the inn.

“You were not yourself,” he says slowly, quietly, as though even now he is trying to form excuses for my behavior. It must have been particularly unseemly, I think with rising concern.

“I awoke in the night to find you sitting straight up in bed. You felt feverish to the touch. I made to find a doctor, but before I could, you became somewhat insistent about discussing our… situation,” he replies, pained.

“What does that mean?”

Renard’s visible discomfort reaches new heights. Again, he seems to be at war with himself, gauging the truth of the matter with how much he wants to divulge to spare both of us the embarrassment.

“By the gods, just tell me, Renard. I need to know how grandly I must apologize to you,” I huff.