More Than Meets the Eye

Chapter Seventeen

When Brynne came banging on the door at half-six, Arielle picked up her head and scowled in the general direction of the door. Had she only dreamed the previous night, or had Thorin actually promised her a future?

With a soft groan, she flung back the quilts and rose. She washed, wincing as she patted the bruise dry, which actually looked even worse now.

She frowned at the somewhat battered face frowning back at her from the looking glass. "Wonderful. The only consolation is that she probably looks just as bad."

Arielle stuck her tongue out at her reflection and finished dressing, then and padded across the corridor to rap lightly on Thorin's door. "Your Highness?"

"What?"

Oh, he sounded as grouchy as she felt. "It's Ari—er— it's Elen."

"Come in."

The handle turned easily and she entered his apartment to find him sitting on the sofa, dressed in the same tunic and trousers he'd worn the night before, rubbing the back of his neck. "Did you fall asleep here again?"

He nodded. "And spare me the lecture, if you'd not mind. My bloody arm feels like it might fall out of its socket and I'm not at all certain I'd mind it if it did."

"Well, we will get you dressed and then we'll go see Narnerra."

He looked up and his glower worsened. She almost took a step back from the fury brewing in his eyes. How could he possibly be annoyed at her already? She hadn't even rambled once yet. "What did I do? Why are you glaring at me?"

Thorin didn't answer, but rose and crossed to her to catch her by the chin and, to her surprise, gently turned her face to the right. "I want Narnerra to look at this as well."

"It's only a bruise. I've had them before. And don't poke it!" This came as a partial yelp as he did indeed prod her.

He lowered his hand. "I beg your pardon. I want to make sure your cheekbone isn't broken."

"It's not. It just hurts, is all." She stepped around him to go into his bedchamber. "Do you wish a bath this morning?"

He thudded along behind her. "I'd probably drown if I attempted it."

"I wouldn't let you drown."

"Well, that's something." He turned away from her and gingerly tugged his tunic over his head.

The only light came from the sconces along outside his bedchamber, but it was enough for her to see the jagged toothmarks-scar of a warg bite over his back. Other, smaller scars dotted the landscape as well—one along his left shoulder that looked like it had come from a blade, another one lower down, also a blade from the looks of it. In fact, he bore probably close to a dozen scars of varying sizes, some slightly crooked from the swells of muscle, but she'd wager most were from blades.

Taking a deep breath, she crept up behind him and pressed her lips against the uneven dotted line that was the scar from the lower jaws of a warg. He stiffened beneath her touch, his voice husky as he whispered, "What are you doing, Arielle?"

Her heart tripled its pace. She slid her arms about his waist, her hands flat against his furred stomach, and kissed the next tooth mark, letting her thumbs brush along that soft hair swirled about his navel. A hint of fresh air, sunshine, and leather touched her nose, along with a hint of musk.

His breath hitched as she flicked the tip of her tongue against one of the scars, then pulled away to whisper, "How did you get these?"

"I—I told you," his reply came slow and thick and she could just picture him; eyes closed, lips slack, as he tried to assemble his thoughts into something coherent, "a warg."