Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

Birds chirp outside my window as I wake three days later to an empty bed. I dress, clean the cottage, then in a completely foolish move, I reach for a jar of wine. Instead of grabbing a terracotta goblet, I drink straight from the jar like Gabriel did, tipping it back over and over.

It’s easier to drink away my frustrations than to focus on everything I haven’t accomplished since I arrived in Astarobane. I still don’t know where Roland is.

I sing one of Mother’s favorite songs as I bake bread. Over and over again, I sing the same song and tip back the terracotta jar.

Once the bread is in the oven, I perch on a chair and slow my consumption to sips. After all, a deep fog settled over the cottage. Or the mist surrounding me is just my imagination. It probably is.

The front door swings open, and Gabriel steps inside. Torchlight sprawls over his features, illuminating his stiff jaw, his tired eyes, and the way he presses his lips together. He does that often, as though he internally prepares himself for a battle when he’s near me.

“Hello.” Clumsily, I salute the air in front of me.

His brow rises.

“I have been drinking.” With determination, I reach for the jar and lift it for him to observe. I even give it a little shake, allowing the liquid to slosh. “See. I like wine too.”

His brow furrows as he sweeps his gaze over me.

A giggle spills from my lips as I stumble to my feet and laugh again. “Would you like some?”

He shakes his head.

“More for me.” I draw the jar to my mouth but miss terribly, spilling the wine down the front of my surcoat. “Oh.”

His boots echo against the floor as he crosses the room and takes the jar from me. “You don’t need anymore.”

“Give it back, Gabriel.”

Determination glints in his eyes as he holds the jar from my reach. “Later.”

I doubt he means to give it back.

“I need…” I let out a loud hiccup, “…more.”

“You need sobering.”

“Shall you help me?” I loop my arms around his neck. “You’re so good.”

When he reaches for my hands, I grip him tighter. His warmth sinks into my surcoat. His scent invades my senses, a mixture of leather, smoke, and cherry wood.

“I have a secret,” I murmur against his neck.

He lowers the jar to the nearby table and turns to lift me into his arms.

“Oh.” I settle my head against his shoulder. “You feel nice.”

My body brushes against his as he crosses the room and steps into our bedchamber. Four steps carry him to the bed, where he deposits me in the center.

“I’ll make you some tea.”

A wave of dizziness hits me when I try to rise. So, I settle against a pillow.

He disappears back into the main room, his voice trailing back to where I lie. “Are you burning something?”

“My bread.” My eyes widen as I hurry from the bed and land flat with my face smashed against the stone floor. “Oh, that hurt.”

His footsteps trail to where I lie. “Why didn’t you stay on the bed where I put you?”

“I’m not a child,” I grumble as he helps me back to the mattress that I foolishly left.

“I doubt even a child would spill wine all over their clothes and fall on their face.” Something shifts in his expression, a softening as he runs his thumb against my cheek—right where he stitched my skin weeks ago. “You’re already bruising.”

“Gabriel.” I lick my bottom lip. “Do you want to hear my secret now?”

“What secret?” He allows his thumb another pass, his touch stirring.

“I dream of you at night. Imagine what it would be like for you to kiss me again.”

He holds my gaze for several beats before he looks away, breaking contact and splintering the moment.

“Do you think of me too?” I ask, my question vulnerable. Needy.

I cannot wish the words unsaid. Maybe tomorrow I will. Maybe tomorrow I’ll regret a lot of things. Not right now. Not when he’s still here.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

Just one word. One single word, yet it has the power of thousands.

“Do you bed me when you think of me?”

Those vibrant eyes return to mine, and even though he doesn’t break contact, clouds immerse them, clouds that hide everything he thinks, feels, wants, needs.

“Say it,” I whisper, my tone raw.

Instead of answering, he swipes his thumb across my cheek for a third time, his touch tracing over that raised scar before dropping away. “Stay here while I prevent our cottage from burning down.”

“No,” I say the moment he stands and disappears into the main room again.

Smoke carries to where I lie, burning my nose and stinging my eyes. His curses follow.

I sigh and stare up at the ceiling, regretting I couldn’t make him bread like Kassandra.

He steps back into the bedroom a moment later and opens the window. “Your bread nearly burnt the cottage down.”

“I was making it for you.”

He settles his gaze on me. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

A smile curves his mouth, lessening the sternness of his jaw. “Because you’re terrible at it.”

“Oh.” A laugh escapes me as I clutch at my bedcovers.

“Vow to me.” His eyes twinkle as he continues. “That you’ll never bake again.”

“I cannot.” I play with a loose thread on the bedcover, looping it around my fingers, then releasing and repeating the action. “I’m determined to make bread like Kassandra.”

“Nobody makes food like Kassandra.”

He’s probably right. It doesn’t make me any less determined to try. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll attempt bread again. I will not drink.

At least, that’s what I promise myself.