Page 80 of The Blight of Hollowmire

She tastes of river water, herbs, and something uniquely Vireth I cannot describe, and I realize with growing concern that I would quite happily stand here for the remainder of my natural life if given the opportunity.

When she finally pulls away, her cheeks are flushed from the kiss, while her beautiful oxblood eyes remain fixed upon mine with a vulnerability I don’t really recognize.

Perhaps it is new for her—this feeling—but it is an old friend to me, and I greet it with the surprise of someone who never thought to see them again.

I love her. I am in love with her. And, if I am being honest with myself, have been for quite some time.

Gods, no wonder I've been so miserable. No wonder I’ve gone from frightened nursemaid to overprotective—even jealous—admirer every time she’s stepped into danger. No wonder every argument lingered in my thoughts long after it ended, and every laugh she surrendered felt like a treasure I wanted to keep.

Somewhere between Hollowmire and here, between the terrible roads and terrifying monsters, between seers and prophecies and shared campfires and all the impossible things we've met together… she rooted herself deep inside my heart and made a bed there of mushrooms and moss.

I love her sharp wit and utter fearlessness, I love the way she mutters to herself like she thinks no one is listening, and the way her entire face transforms whenever something summons her earth-shattering smile. I love her impossible courage, her terrible temper, her endless compassion, and the aching loneliness she carries so carefully beneath all of it.

I love her. Completely. Wildly. Terribly.

I love her enough that the thought of losing her has haunted me for weeks—that my mornings must begin with the sight of her across the fire, that my evenings must end with the comfort of her voice somewhere near. I love her enough that my whole world has remade itself in her presence—as though every road will inevitably lead back to wherever she happens to be.

And now, she has kissed me, and that might undo me entirely because wanting her from afar was painful enough, but being handed even the smallest glimpse of possibility feels infinitely worse, opening doors inside me that I had long ago convinced myself would remain locked forever.

Before this moment, I could at least pretend that the future belonged solely to duty and obligation and whatever years remained to me. Now, despite every effort to remain sensible, I find myself wanting things. Dangerous things. Impossible things. Mornings waking up next to her, every challenge and argument I’d have the privilege to face with her, hearing her laughter and her swears and her sighs—and enough years together that eventually neither of us can remember what life looked like before the other arrived.

The yearning rises so suddenly and so fiercely that it steals my breath and buckles my knees. Because somewhere along this journey, without permission and entirely against my better judgment, this extraordinary, infuriating, beautiful woman became the thing I want most in all the world. And standing here with her lips still lingering upon mine, I fear there is no recovering from that.

16

Vireth

When Renard stole away from camp in the gathering light of dawn, I followed him almost immediately. Of course I did.

Something about his tense manner and furtive movements left me restless enough that remaining behind became impossible. What was the reason for leaving here in naught but his shirt and breeches with his sword clutched tightly in his fist? Likely not for checking any snares he might’ve set yesterday, or any of the traps he laid in the river. Certainly not for washing, or any other early morning ablutions.

By the time I convinced myself that I was merely being cautious, or indulging my curiosity, I was already moving quietly through the trees with my sword at my side and my pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

The sounds reached me before I could reach him—voices at first, followed quickly by sounds of violence. I hurried forward through the undergrowth until the trees finally thinned out enough to grant me a clear view of the small camp below, fully expecting to find him outnumbered and in need of assistance. His injuries have healed remarkably well, but it would only take a strike or two to remind him that his muscles and body are not what they might have been before coming up against the fell creatures of this realm.

Instead, however, I found myself rooted to the spot.

It struck me that the man must lie constantly, every time he complains about his knee, every time he grumbles about his age, and every time he heaves one of those long-suffering sighs regarding old injuries and aching bones, because the man moving through that camp bears precious little resemblance to the one who groans when standing too quickly. Perhaps lies is too strong a word for it. Half-truths, then. Omissions. The careful highlighting of every weakness while quietly neglecting to mention that he can apparently dismantle five armed men with the same calm competence most people reserve for chopping firewood.

The man moving through that camp bore only a passing resemblance to the one I’ve been traveling beside and fretting over. His broad shoulders are familiar. His battered sword is familiar. His golden hair threaded with silver is familiar. Everything else, however, feels entirely new.

I watched him step into the middle of this group of men with all the concern of someone interrupting an inappropriate conversation, and then proceed to dismantle them with such effortless competence that I briefly forget how to breathe.

He dances with his blade, never lifting it needlessly, always evaluating the man who stands before him—as well as the others in his periphery. In a matter of minutes, he disarms a man with an axe, a bow, a sword, and a club with the leashed skill of an instructor teaching a lesson.

Mayhap if I were a more sensible woman, I would be frightened—uneasy—around a man who possesses both the talent and the wisdom to lay waste to a group of younger men when the odds are heavily stacked against him. I’ve never enjoyed being particularly sensible, though.

So I simply stand here, mouth agape like a caught fish, staring at the broad sweep of his shoulders, the rippling strength in his arms, the faint sheen of sweat glowing on his brow, and the calm certainty written across his face. Competence has always been attractive, but watching a large, capable man act with efficiency and without cruelty, however, turns a steady trickle of desire into a flood.

It would be convenient to lay the reasoning at the Blight Mother’s feet—the goddess of insatiable appetites—but the truth is my desire is mine alone this time. I’ve wanted him for weeks. I have wanted him while sharing meals beside the fire, while listening to his stories and watching him smile at Nibblebones and weary travelers and every stray creature fortunate enough to step into his path.

I have wanted him against all my better judgments, and now… well. There is something earth-shattering and singularly devastating about seeing a person bloom into something more than you expected them to be.

By the time the last bandit flees into the trees, I am no longer certain whether my pulse is racing because of the fight, or because Renard is standing in the middle of the clearing looking ready to fight the gods themselves to protect me—and perhaps even win.

I need him with a ferocity that staggers me.

“Vireth!” he shouts. “Tell me you’re unharmed.”