“Gods help you.” He looses a humorless laugh. “Gods help us all.”
“Where I go next is no business of yours,” I say stiffly. “Much as I appreciate you getting me to safety, what I do from this point on has nothing to do with you. So, if you wouldn’t mind returning my clothing, I’ll saddle Onyx and be on my way.”
He speaks as though he hasn’t heard me. “You don’t have any idea what you are, do you?”
My teeth clench.
“Given your clumsy attempts at wielding your power, that much is obvious,” he continues. His expression darkens, sudden as a summer storm. “What can that fool be thinking, putting you at risk? Leaving you exposed to all manner of dangers? Reckless. Bloody reckless. Even for him.”
“He is far from a fool,” I snap without thinking. “We were attacked by Reavers.”
“How quickly you spring to his defense.” His smile is a knife’s edge—cutting and cruel. “I’m guessing that means he hasn’t told you why he is so eager to bring you back to his homeland.”
I try not to react. Try not to succumb to his transparent provocations. The idea that Penn has an ulterior motive is not a novel one. I’ve suspected as much from the moment he drove his sword through Burrows’s throat and threw me on the back of his horse. Yet, for some reason, contemplating it hurts more now. For some reason…I had begun to believe him when he said he is not my enemy. To hope Farley had not lied when he’d called us friends.
Penn may not be a fool, but you certainly are one, Rhya Fleetwood.
“I’m guessing he hasn’t told you much of anything,” the blue-eyed stranger continues, each word a fresh blow. “Not very big on sharing, is he?”
“And I suppose you will?” I retort. “I don’t know you, but you don’t seem the forthcoming type.”
His knife-blade smile sharpens. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, who you are and what you truly want with me.”
He stares at me for a long while. He says not a word as his hands lift to his shirt. It is fashioned in a timeless style, appearing at once very old and immaculately new. The fabric is such a darkblue, it looks black at first glance. The buttons down the front are polished stones carved with intricate patterns. My eyes widen as he begins to undo them, one by one.
“What the skies are you doing?” I shriek, pressing back against the windowsill in alarm, my pulse a cavalry charge within my chest.
“Not what you think.” He continues to work at the buttons, his deft fingers moving quickly down the line until his shirt flutters open. With fluid grace, he shrugs it off, revealing a muscular chest that looks carved from marble. The navy material flutters to the floorboards.
And I gasp.
Not at the sight of a man’s naked torso—I have seen plenty of those in my time healing sickly villagers with Eli—but at the dark whorls that mark the otherwise flawless stretch of golden flesh on the left side of his chest. A triangular pattern spirals outward from the center, across his pectoral. Darker than pitch and ever so slightly raised from the rest of his skin, almost like a blackened brand.
There is no denying what it is.
A Remnant.
It is the same as mine, yet different. Not only the placement, but the design itself. Where the whorls of my own mark are ethereal, almost gossamer, his have more substance. There is a fluidity to their wavelike coils, but also unquestionable strength in the thicker lines, the bolder curves. If my mark is a breeze on the surface of the sea, his is the riptide roaring below.
Without a thought as to what I’m about to do, I take two strides forward. My hand flies up to touch the intricate design, needing to confirm what I’m seeing is actually there. That it’s real.
Thathe’sreal.
He sucks in a sharp breath as my fingertips make contact, but I barely notice. His skin is somewhat cool to the touch and surprisingly soft, like satin over the steel of his muscular chest. When I start to trace the waves and spirals of his Remnant, a sound rattles low in his throat—half groan, half growl. His hand flies up to manacle my wrist and jerks it away, stopping my exploration almost before it’s begun.
“That,” he hisses softly, “is sensitive.”
Skies.
I should be embarrassed. I’m sure that will come later, but in this moment, I’m too unnerved to process my own emotional state. I glance up into the stranger’s face, craning my neck all the way back to accomplish it. He’s quite tall. His strong fingers still grip my wrist—not painfully, but also not gently. Though I tell myself to pull away, I’m paralyzed into stillness by the piercing weight of his eyes. Blue as the ocean and just as bottomless.
“Who am I?” The stranger’s mouth twists in a half grin as he finally answers my question. “I am…Water.”
I make myway downstairs when my head stops spinning.
After revealing his Remnant mark, my enigmatic host said nothing else. He’d merely bent, extracted his shirt from the floor, and left me alone to gather myself with orders to meet him on the terrace whenever I feel ready.