In the rain, I followed him back to his room in silence. I had no idea what he thought of my prospects in tomorrow’s trial. I had to stay alive long enough to find the World Key.

Stay alive, find the key, save Ciara. That was my mission. And after that, I’d have to figure out how to adjust to life as a fugitive. I had a horrible feeling Ciara and I could end up living literally underground again.

By the time we reached Ruadan’s room, I was shivering in the drafty castle air. My damp clothing clung to my body. I pulled off my backpack, and my stomach rumbled loudly, practically competing with the thunder. I gripped my belly. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Ruadan was doing that thing again where he went completely still and just stared at me, and I was starting to feel just a little weird about it.

When I looked down at myself, I realized that the freezing rain had hardened my nipples under my shirt.

That didn’t increase my sense of comfort, and I folded my arms in front of my chest. “I’m freezing. I don’t suppose you have a bath? And some dry clothes?”

He crossed to the black dresser and opened one of the drawers that I’d rifled through earlier. He pulled out a black tunic—just about ten sizes too large for me—and handed it to me. Then, he nodded at an archway that led into another room. It had no door on it, so … that was awkward. Then again, Ruadan had so far shown no sexual interest in me whatsoever.

I raised my eyebrows. “I’m going to hazard a guess that when they started this whole anathra thing, only men were involved.”

He nodded, and I crossed into the bathroom. Like the rest of his room, the bathroom was sparsely decorated with sleek, dark stone studded with gleaming black rocks. A stone tub jutted from the floor—as if it had grown from it. Steaming spring water bubbled in it.

I peeled off the cold, sodden clothes that stuck to my body. Goosebumps covered my skin, and my teeth chattered.

I stepped into the bubbling water, the heat nearly scalding me, turning my skin pink. Still, it soothed my muscles. Sinking into the bath, I snatched a bar of soap from the side of the tub. I scrubbed my skin, luxuriating in the heat. Then, I soaped up my hair, and dunked my head under to wash it. The soap smelled like lavender. Funny. I hadn’t taken Ruadan for a floral soap guy.

I really didn’t know anything about him, except that he was a frustratingly skilled fighter, kind of a murdery dick, and obnoxiously beautiful. Oh, and he wanted to kill the man who’d sent me here. From what I’d seen, he had immensely powerful arms—

I clenched my fists, rebuking myself for musing too long about his appearance. I wasn’t going to luxuriate here, naked in the man’s tub, thinking about his beauty.

I rose, and the water dripped down my skin in warm rivulets. I toweled off, my mind flashing with the disturbing memory of Ruadan’s teeth at my throat.

I pulled on his tunic, and it skimmed over my bare skin, reaching to midway down my thighs. My legs had suffered less damage than my torso. I only had a few brutal scars on my right thigh from an irritating dragon shifter who’d briefly pinned me in the arena.

When I crossed back into Ruadan’s bedroom, my mouth started watering. On the jagged stone table in the corner of his room sat a warm meat pie, and steam curled from its crust. It smelled of rosemary, potatoes, and steak. Perfection.

Fae pies were simply the best thing in the world, and my stomach rumbled loudly again, much to my embarrassment.

I glanced at Ruadan, who still wore his wet clothes. He gestured at the table, and I grinned at the confirmation that it was for me.

Before sitting down, I snatched my bottle of whiskey out of my backpack and plonked it down on the stone table. I took my seat and drained a glass of water before filling the bottom of the glass with whiskey.

I lifted the bottle to Ruadan. “Care for a dram?”

His violet eyes bored into me.

I took a sip. “Ruadan, your attitude is harshing my mellow.”

I cut into my pie. As I ate, I relished every rich mouthful. Whoever had made this had used just the right amount of butter. After six years in Baleros’s care, I would never again take food for granted. For every single meal, Baleros had fed us his version of porridge—cold milk mixed with raw oats and a can of beans. Three times a week, we’d get limes so we didn’t get scurvy. Nutritionally, it wasn’t the worst thing, but it definitely hadn’t lit my world on fire.

When I was about halfway through my pie, I glanced over at Ruadan, watching as he peeled off his wet shirt. My eyes roamed over his golden, thickly corded body. Like on me, scars lined his skin. He probably could have healed them if he’d wanted to, but didn’t want the unlined skin of a scholar. A single, stark tattoo cut across the center of his back—a rune in the ancient fae language.

When he started to take off his trousers, I quickly focused on my pie again. He obviously wasn’t shy about being naked in front of me, and it confirmed for me again that he had no sexual interest in me. I was just one of the guys, an irritating novice warrior he’d been saddled with. But I had functioning eyes and he was stunning, so I couldn’t really treat him with the same indifference.

When he’d dressed again, he crossed the room to me, and sat across from me at the stone table. His pale golden hair framed his perfect cheekbones.

My belly was now full, and I leaned back in my chair. “I guess I didn’t do so well in our training. Do you have any insight for me?”

He simply shook his head.

I was starting to get frustrated. “That’s it? This is how you train someone?”

To my surprise, he reached into his trousers and pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil. He started writing, the scratching of his pencil filling the silence.

When he finished, he handed me the piece of paper. There, in his looping script, he’d written

You are spoiled and defiant, and a ruthless criminal. You are undisciplined, angry, impulsive, and you fight like a gutter fae.

I snarled at him. “I am a gutter fae.”

He pointed at the note, and I kept reading.

But you don’t need my help for the sword fighting trial. Your skill far exceeds the other novices and some of the knights. Just take care to wipe the smug grin off your face, because it signals when you’re about to strike.

“Fair enough.”

Then, he pulled my piece of paper from me, writing:

Who trained you?

Conceal your true nature.

I shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve always been good at. Must be in the gutter fae blood.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. He clearly didn’t believe me, and something like cold fury burned in his gaze. Baleros had once fought with him. How well did they know each other?

I folded up the paper. Since we were actually talking now, in a way, maybe I could bring up the topic of the World Key.

I took a sip of my whiskey. “I’ve heard some of the trials might happen in different realms. I thought the magical realms were all locked up these days.”

He folded his arms. Shadows pooled on the floor around him.

“I know you can communicate now. You just did. You’ve got an obstinate streak.”

He leaned closer, and his cold gaze swept down my body, examining me closely. When his gaze brushed past the thick scars on my thigh, his body tensed.

He shifted, kneeling down in front of me for a closer look at my scar. For some reason, it had piqued his interest. In the next moment, his powerful hands were on my thigh, fingers running over the ridge. I nearly gasped at the unexpected gentleness of his touch.

His brow furrowed. I felt acutely aware of the warm feel of his fingers, his breath warming my skin. He seemed intensely focused on the scar—not in a weird, scar-fetishist way. Just clinically curious. In fact, he was inching up the fabric a little higher for a better look. I tensed, painfully conscious of the fact that I wasn’t wearing anything at all under the tunic.

I was starting to get the impression that he had no idea what effect he had on women, which, frustratingly, only made him more attractive. Maybe he was comfortable being naked in front of me, but I wasn’t on the same page as him.

His hands inched up just a little higher, and I clamped down hard on them.

He looked startled, as if he’d just been undertaking some kind of scientific investigation and I’d stopped him. Then, he pulled away from me.

I grabbed the edge of the tunic, pulling it down again. I was pretty sure my cheeks had gone bright pink.

He pulled out his pencil and paper again, scrawling.

Where did you get those scars?

“Bar fight,” I lied. “Someone threw me through a window after I called him a slack-jawed wank-stain.”

Ruadan’s expression cleared, as if he should have known all along that I was just an ordinary bar-brawler. He almost looked relieved.

“What happens tomorrow, exactly? Just straightforward sword fighting?”

Another scribble on his paper.

You will travel to another realm. You will fight the other novices, but also demons.

My pulse sped up. Another realm. “And how do we get there?” I asked.

His expression shuttered again, and he rose, crossing to his bed. It seemed he knew the World Key was a hot commodity, and if I pushed any harder right now, I risked alienating him completely.

He crawled into his bed and blew into the air. The lights in the candles instantly flickered out, and darkness shrouded the room. How did he do that? That definitely wasn’t a fae trick.

Still wearing his tunic, I crossed to a corner of the room and curled up on the floor. The cold stone bit into my bare skin. Okay, so he’d got me a pie, but he wasn’t about to stretch as far as giving me a blanket. I understood that he operated with a sort of stark efficiency. He was supposed to keep me alive, and I’d be rubbish in a sword fight if I didn’t eat anything. But my physical comfort really had no bearing on the matter, so cold stone was fine for sleeping.

It didn’t matter. I was used to sleeping on cold stone, even if I was shivering. In the cage where I’d lived, Ciara and I would tell each other stories every night before bed. Stories about magic, about heroes, about women leading armies to destroy the men who’d oppressed them. Stories about a made-up goddess we called Ciarianna, who slaughtered the grotesque war gods who tried to enslave her. Stories of women who gutted the men who abused them. Lying on the floor, I quietly muttered one of those stories under my breath—the one about Ciarianna burning a warlord to death. Oddly enough, the gruesome details soothed me.

When I slept, I dreamt of Ciara, sleeping by my side, one arm wrapped around me to keep me from shivering.