More Than Meets the Eye

Chapter Sixteen

A sense of weariness wove through Thorin as they crested the road from Dale and Erebor came into view. He was impatient to return home. He tried to tell himself it was because it was home, because he was exhausted from time spent with a cousin who fully enjoyed being as rowdy as possible. Normally, he and Dáin got on like a house on fire, but this time, despite needing the change, needing a bit of freedom for himself, all Thorin could think about was returning to Erebor. There was so much to do there, so much work left, that he really couldn't remain away for long.

Or so he told himself.

But as they drew closer to Erebor, he decided he was tired of lying to himself. The work would always be there. It would wait as a result. And it had nothing to do with his wanting to return. Nothing at all.

He wanted to see Arielle.

He missed her.

All he wanted to do was knock on her door and when she opened it, he wanted to sweep her into his arms, spirit her to her bed, and pick up where they'd left off when he'd been such an idiot and stopped her.

Finally, they were inside the gates and he swept through the Great Hall before anyone could see hime, before anyone could stop him. All he could think about was going below, to reaching Arielle. And when he stood before her closed door, his gut churned madly, in a way it had never churned before. His mouth was dry. His heart thudded furiously against his ribs. It took all his will to force himself to knock and while he waited for her to answer, his blood roared through his temples.

Footsteps sounded softly from the other side. The door opened and Arielle peered out, her hair a wild mess about her face, her eyes heavy with sleep. "Thorin?"

"Did I wake you?"

She rubbed one eye. "N-no... I had to get up and answer the door anyway." She looked up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I just returned from the Iron Hills, just a few minutes ago. May I?" He gestured to her apartment.

"What? Oh, right... of course..." She stepped back, opening the door wider to let him by. "I thought you would be back tomorrow or tomorrow night. You never actually told me when to expect you back."

Guilt sliced through him. He'd left in a fury, punishing her for his idiocy by just storming off and leaving her behind. I'm am the greatest of fools.

"I just needed to be back here." He thudded into her apartment and waited for her to close the door. "We need to talk, Arielle. About what happened the other morning."

"No," she shook her head, those curls bouncing in all directions, "we really don't. I made a fool of myself and for that I apologize."

"You did no such thing."

"I did. And—" She faced him. "What?"

His gut kinked and this time, nerves had nothing to do with it, while the bruise below her left eye had everything to do with it. "What happened?"

"Oh, this?" She touched the bruise, winced, and lowered her hand. "It's nothing."

"That is not nothing, Arielle. Who did this? Who put their hands on you?" He closed the space between them, catching her face in his hands to tilt it up for a better look. It was an ugly bruise—purple and blue and doughy to the touch. He gently probed at it, which made her hiss with pain and jerk free from him.

"Take care! It is a bruise, you know."

"Who did this."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."