"Alaric," I say again as I hold out my hand, palm up as is tradition. "I would say it's a pleasure making your acquaintance, but since you're planning on killing me, that might come across as disingenuous. I'm Adara Alexander."
He looks down at my hand like he's never seen one before, then after a moment finally places his palm against mine, holding it there a moment as he locks his gaze with mine. "I wish we had met under different circumstances, Adara," he says.
I yank my hand back as if he'd burned me with the coldest ice or the hottest fire, and I glance down, unable to tolerate bearing witness to the deep pain I see reflected in his eyes.
I don't want to think about what has been done to him, or how he might feel. I'm not here to be his Tribal Mentor, I'm here to be his end. And I can't let anything distract me from that mission.
But that doesn’t mean I can't take a bath.
So I allow him to help me out of bed. My legs wobble under my weight, and a well-muscled arm slips around my waist as he lifts me as easily as a child.
His face is so close to mine, my chest partially pressed against his. He's held me like this before, but I was bleeding and in so much pain I couldn't stay awake. Now, though, I am much more conscious of how he feels against me, how his arms feel around me.
I don't like the feelings his nearness inspires in me.
I don't like that I'm starting to see him as a person.
"Do you fear me?" he asks, his voice a whisper against my skin.
"Yes," I say, and it's the truth, but not the truth he thinks. I do not fear dying to him. I fear falling for him.
But my answer sends a shadow across his face as he walks me into the bathroom and gently places me back on my feet.
"You are right to. I cause only pain."
Whatever response I might have had to him dies on my lips as I study the washroom before me. It's massive, larger than some houses in Willowdale, and in the center is a bath big enough for several adults, and tiled in intricate designs of blues and greens. The tub is full of steaming water, and oils, salts, and dried flower petals are sorted into glass jars on the edge.
"When did you prepare this?" I ask. The water looks too hot to have been there long, but he's been with me this whole time.
He looks away. "Your needs will always be met while you are a guest here," he says, avoiding my question entirely.
I'm ready to sink into the water, but he's still standing there, staring. "Are you planning on watching?" I ask pointedly.
His lips tighten. "Of course not, but you are too injured still to be left alone entirely. You could slip or… " he struggles to find the words, and I sigh.
"It's fine, just turn your head a moment."
To be honest, I'm not particularly modest. We have a community bathing house in Willowdale that I frequented. It was the only place anyone could be naked without freezing to death. Still, I don't want to be that exposed to the man I'm here to kill.
When he averts his gaze, I tug at my slip, sliding it off with no small amount of discomfort, then I carefully climb into the bath.
The moment my body sinks into the water I can't help but sigh in deep contentment. "You can turn around now," I say, as I sniff at the jars and pour a mixture of oils, salts, and flowers into the water.
The room fills with a floral scent that is relaxing, and I close my eyes and breathe in the steam and gentle fragrance while Alaric sits near me.
After a long moment of silence, he clears his throat. "Would you… like me to read to you?"
His question surprises me, and I turn my head to look at him. "That would be… unexpectedly nice," I say, a war of emotions playing in my heart.
He cracks open his book and begins, his voice deep and soothing.
I don't know how long we go on like this for, but once the water cools, I fidget, ready to get out, but my body is a limp noodle and I know I'll need his help.
He seems to grasp this intuitively and offers me a plush robe to cover myself as his strong arms lift me from the bath. I get water all over his shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind. He carries me to the bedroom and sets me in front of the fire, allowing me to dry myself off.
There's already a pile of warm clothes at my side when I'm done, though I didn't see him leave to retrieve them. The mystery of this castle deepens, but I stifle my questions and dress slowly while his head is turned.
“Do you wish to go back to bed?” he asks, turning back to me once I'm properly clothed.
“No,” I say, surprising myself. "I'm tired of being in bed, though I can't do much."
"We could read in front of the fire," he offers. "I can show you my library and you could pick anything you'd like."
The promise of a library makes my pulse race and I smile. "That sounds wonderful."
He frowns. "It's a bit of a walk. Perhaps I could carry you. You are still quite weak from your wounds."
A thrill of delight travels through me unbidden at the thought of being in his arms again, but I push it aside, burying it entirely. Still, I nod. I want the books more than I want to protect my heart, it would seem.
He carries me down long halls, turning many corners, until we reach a tall double door made of a deep mahogany wood and stained glass. He uses one hand to push it open, then gently sets me down.
I gasp as I look around.
The library is three floors high, with tall ladders on wheels placed strategically and books covering every shelf and wall. There are more books here than I could ever read in ten lifetimes. When I can finally pull my gaze from the splendor of this room, I stare up at him. "Have you read all these?"
He nods. "When you have lived as long as I in this prison of ice and solitude, books become your only companion."
I can't help it; I reach for his hand. It is ice to my touch and he blinks in surprise, but I don't let go. Not right away. Because in this moment I realize the most awful truth.
This man hasn't had loving human contact in probably thousands of years. He has relied on ink and paper for all of his emotional needs, and that is such a tragedy it brings tears to my eyes. If there's nothing else I can do for him, I can at least do this. I can at least give him a moment of kindness, whatever else might happen between us.
I swallow my tears before I speak. "Thank you for this. I don't know how to pick. Will you choose a few for me?"
And so he does, piling several well-worn leather treasures into a bag, then carrying both it and me back to my room.
That night we stay up late reading in quiet companionship in front of the fire that never dies, and as I fall asleep, book in lap, my eyes too heavy to keep open, I feel him lift me gently and tuck me into bed. Before he leaves, I hear him whisper, "thank you."
Chapter 5
That proved to be the first of many nights we followed the same routine. We both slept all day. He was there in the evening when I woke, a bath magically ready for me. At first, he would leave me alone to bathe, sitting near enough in case I slipped or injured myself. Then he would dress my wounds and we would read in silence together in front of the fire. After a fortnight of such activity, it organically progressed to us discussing what we were reading, sharing favorite passages, having heated debates.