ZORA

It’s taking less time than I expected for my wounds to heal. This has me wondering whether Farin has some secret healing ability he isn’t telling me about. Or maybe all the physicians are right about the salty ocean air being beneficial to one’s health.

Either way, the faster I heal, the less time I have to figure out a plan for thwarting Farin’s trip back to Alondria.

The other problem is, the more time my wound takes to heal, the more time Farin and I have to sit and ponder and talk. And, in a limited quantity which I monitor religiously, laugh.

That’s going to be problematic.

Okay, it’s already problematic, but I’m only willing to admit that to myself on certain occasions.

Now, as Farin is redressing my wound, is one of those occasions.

He does it twice a day, using the saltwater from the ocean and the few strips that are left of his outer tunic. I tell myself that I dread the occurrence. If I were to say as much aloud as a fae in Alondria, I’d likely be struck dead like Farin once was.

I have a tendency to avoid male kind. At least the ones I find attractive. It happens every time I reach the realization that there’s something off about me. That I’m not meant to be a part of whatever world I’m in. That the dreams I had as a child weren’t actually dreams, but memories.

It makes it difficult to attach yourself to someone, knowing you’re going to have to move on without them for lives on end.

That doesn’t make me immune to the male touch, though.

Farin is surprisingly respectful as he dresses my wounds, careful not to adjust my clothes any further than is necessary. It’s a rather humiliating experience. For one, Farin, psychopathic as he might be, has not been punished for being so. Not when it comes to his looks and physique. And though he attempts to keep things chaste, I find his fingers often brush the skin of my torso, sending a shiver down my spine and a flush to my cheeks that I hope he doesn’t notice.

“You’re healing up rather nicely.” He examines my wound with gratification. I crane my neck to look, which is effortful, but I’m pleased to find that he’s right.

The wound, which has been oozing a rather unpleasant yellow fluid for the past several days, now looks much smaller and significantly less inflamed.

“And to think,” says Farin, dressing my wound and pulling my shirt down to cover my torso. “Just a little while longer and you’ll be rid of me for good.”

Rid of Farin for good.

Yep. That’s definitely what I want.

What any sane female would want.

To be rid of the murderer who stabbed her hoping to get back to another female.

I flash him a smile.

And hate myself for what it does to me when he smiles back.

A storm breaks over the island, pelting our cave in hail and ice.

The hail doesn’t make it into the cave, but the cold does.

It seeps through my thin tunic, soaking my skin and drilling into my bones, until it’s less that I’m cold, and more that I ache, my limbs so brittle they feel as though they might shatter.

“You can’t do this,” Farin says, examining me from across the cave.

“Can’t do what?” I ask, lying on my back, fighting the urge to curl into a ball in an attempt to warm myself, lest I burst the scabs that’ve formed on my wound.

“You won’t survive the night.”

“Must you narrate my death? It’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Farin smiles, the kind that tells me he’s genuinely amused. “I could help you, you know.”

I tug at the washed-up sail Farin fetched from the beach for me to use as a blanket, so that only my face shows. “I think you’ve done enough already.”

“I’m going to take that as meaning nursing you back to health.”

I sputter. “Nursing me back to health from the wound you inflicted.”

He pauses. “I truly am sorry about that.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I’ll say it a thousand times if I think there’s the slightest chance you’ll forgive me the next time around,” he says.

I’d roll my eyes if they weren’t so dry from the cold. “You really are enjoying this lying privilege.”

Farin’s lips curl. “Oh, I dunno. I can’t like lying half as much as you.”

I don’t have energy for a response. Just a questioning look.

“You’re lying to yourself right now,” he says.

“Am I?”

Farin fixes his gaze on me. “Sure you are. You’re telling yourself you hate me beyond what’s forgivable. You’re telling yourself that you don’t share the same attraction for me that I hold for you. But that’s not news. What’s currently relevant is how you’re pretending to yourself that you’re not imagining me slipping into that sail with you, holding you close to me until my heat thaws your bones.”

I harrumph, but it’s mostly to hide the way his words would be causing me to shiver if I weren’t already doing that. “You possess a rather inflated view of yourself.”

He shrugs. “Who knows? Perhaps I’m secretly insecure and use my charm as a compensation method.”

I can’t help myself. I laugh.

His eyes glitter with satisfaction. “If I go on being self-deprecating, will you do that again?”

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

This time, I blush, and it’s warm and lovely, and I’m probably only thinking it is because I’m freezing to death.

“Wanderer.”

My throat goes dry. “Yes?”