Page 86 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Faren popped a grape in his mouth. “Moving crates, mostly.”

“I’m sure they were grateful for the help.”

“Seemed like a good way to get into your friends’ good graces.”

“They’re not my—”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen.” Faren set his plate aside. “I’ve been thinking, and if you’d truly prefer it, I can talk to Anya about another room. Or perhaps sleep in the stables if she is indeed not lying about her availability.”

“After all that talk of soft beds, you’d sleep in a cold barn for me?”

“You seem tense. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

If anything, I felt touched. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“How about I sleep on the floor, then?” He stood, gesturing at the thick rug that ran between the foot of the bed and the hearth. “Seems cozy enough.”

I finished my bread, licked my fingers. “Why are you being so nice?”

“Would you prefer I be cruel?”

It would certainly make him less appealing. “Icould sleep on the floor,” I said, withering at the idea even as I proposed it. “After all, it’s well established that the Valiant are tougher than the Mighty.”

“Ah yes,” Faren said, “but the Mighty are more chivalrous. Do you think Kieran would let a maiden sleep on the floor?”

“I am no maiden,” I pointed out.

He chuckled. “You really aren’t, are you?”

He came nearer, reaching past me to gather a few pillows and a spare quilt off the bed. I stepped aside, replacing my empty plate on the tray and pouring myself a cup of water. While he carried his bedding to the floor, I leaned back against the desk, sipping, watching. He laid the quilt on the rug and arranged the pillows at one end.

“You can take the furs, too,” I told him, nodding at the heap of pelts at the base of the bed.

“You don’t want them?”

I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t like the feeling.”

“In truth, I don’t, either.” Face scrunching, he gathered the furs and dumped them atop the chair. “Do you think other sorts of magicians are truly so numb that they do not notice how irritatingly ticklish pelts can be?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t understand why anyone would wanthairagainst their skin all night.”

Faren laughed, and—without warning—yanked his shirt over his head. In the candlelight, his golden skin seemed to glow, etched with shadows along the defined lines of his pecs and abdominals. Light brown hair dusted his chest, darkening as it neared the band of his trousers. His was a body honed by training, but unmarred. Flawless.

I’d never put much thought into the aesthetics of my scars and injuries. If anything, I was proud of what they represented:my ability to survive. But Faren’s smooth skin—the privilege of it—made me feel suddenly self-conscious, and also strangely desperate to be seen.

Finishing my water, I turned my back to him, feigning disinterest in his form. I went to my pack in search of a clean shirt. The dressing gown was damp from my hair and too cumbersome to wear to bed.

“How’s your wound from Yar?” I asked casually, still not looking at him. “Do you need more salve?”

“No, it’s good. Almost healed.”

“Good.”

When I turned around again, Faren was lying on his back on the floor. The quilt was draped across his lower half. He had his arms folded behind his head, showing off his biceps. He appeared wholly comfortable.

Still, I had to ask, “Are you sure you—”

“I don’t mind. Truly.” He noticed the shirt I held. “Do you need to change?”