He dumped the steaming water into the bath, then stuck his hand in and cursed. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”
“Haven’t you drawn a bath before?”
Brow furrowing, he stared down at the tepid water. “I’ve never needed to.”
With his ability to conjure anything and everything, what would be the point in doing things for himself? “Just do your little flicky thing and warm it up.”
His eyes narrowed. “My little flicky thing?”
“You know.” I did my best impression of his magical wrist-flick. “Your flicky thing.”
Rían folded his arms over his chest. Why wasn’t he doing it?
“Is it not working again?” Returning from the underworld must take a considerable amount of magic. If he had any left, surely he would’ve shifted the bath instead of filling it bucket by bucket.
“My ‘flicky-thing’ is working just fine,” he muttered. “I’ve warded this cottage against magic, so I have to do this the pathetic human way.”
“Why would you do something like that?” He seemed to use magic for everything.
“Our magic leaves a lingering scent, and I never wanted the Queen to find out about you. This was where you were supposed to wake after Tadgh’s curse wore off.” He turned and started for the door with the kettle.
This place had been his plan all along.
Rían had given me my dream.
How could he think for even a moment that I wouldn’t do everything in my power to give him the same?
I checked the tub again. The water wasn’tthatcold.
Did I really want to sit in my own filth any longer? My legs trembled when I stood. I threw another turf brick into the hearth and shed the robe and shift. The moment my toes dipped beneath the surface, goosebumps erupted over my skin.
Cold. Cold. So bloody cold.
I had to do this quickly so I didn’t turn into a block of ice.
Holding my breath, I dunked my head. When I came up for air, I found Rían slack-jawed in the entrance, the kettle hanging loosely in his hand.
My trembling lips lifted into a smile. “Do you know if there’s any soap?”
He dropped the kettle and ran to the spare room, returning with a fluffy brown towel and bar of soap. I thanked him and went about scrubbing away the remnants of my incarceration. If only erasing the memories and the stain of utter hopelessness were as simple.
Rían left me for the bedroom, making a racket doing heaven-knew-what.
The scars at my wrist were no longer red and raw but silver.
Silver like the scar on my palm.
I blinked.
And blinked.
And blinked.
Silver scars . . .
Iron burned my skin . . .
Witch hazel scalded like acid . . .