the angels hidden blade

TWENTY EIGHT

Nefeli lay sprawled on the bed, book propped up in front of her as she meticulously sketched the vampiress with a twisted face and sharp teeth jutting out at odd angles.

The strokes of her pencil mirrored the monstrous beauty of the creature she was capturing on paper.

"Jask, how do you write this one?" she called out, without taking her eyes off her artwork.

The sound of water splashing echoed in the room. She knew that Geralt was bathing and Jaskier was obviously still pestering him about the party.

She was used to this by now. They never had enough coin to get separate rooms in the tavern they stayed in, so they opted to share instead.

Nefeli often slept with her furs on the floor, in front of the fire. She had no desire to share a bed with the massive Witcher or the Bard.

Without missing a beat, Jaskier's voice floated from the large tub, where he sat pouring water over the Witcher's grime-covered head.

"The letters are in the first sentence, the one that starts with V," he yelled back, amidst another splash of water.

Meanwhile, Nefeli felt a strange sensation deep inside her as she heard Geralt grunt angrily.

Her pulse quickened, and a tingling magic coursed through her skin.

She couldn't resist stealing a glance in his direction, only to find him sitting in the wooden tub, his bare chest glistening with water and scars decorating his muscular frame.

Her throat suddenly went dry, and her heart raced like a wild horse.

Just as their eyes met, a surge of electricity passed between them. The play of shadows on his chiselled features, the water droplets clinging to his hair, the scars that told tales of countless battles — it all held an inexplicable allure for her.

Nefeli's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she quickly averted her gaze, her eyes fixed on her drawing once again.

"It's one night of bodyguarding your best friend in the whole wide world," Jaskier chimed in, throwing a bar of sweet-smelling soap to Geralt.

"I guess I don't count," Nefeli murmured, unable to conceal a tinge of disappointment in her voice.

Geralt's head snapped up, his eyes locked onto Nefeli's pale pink orbs.

Golden flames danced in his gaze, mingling with the black inky swirls that marked his intense emotions.

Sensing the undeniable heat in them, Nefeli's heart skipped a beat.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she brought her drawing up to both men and raised an eyebrow, seeking their approval.

"That's amazing," Jaskier exclaimed as he moved away from the tub and came to settle beside her.

"Although," he continued, gently taking the book and quill from her hands,

"you mixed up these letters here."

Nefeli groaned in frustration and let herself collapse onto the soft expanse of the bed.

The amount of mental exertion she had put into her artistic endeavours had given her a pounding headache.

"Hurry up, Geralt. I need to bathe. I smell like a dead ox," Nefeli grumbled, her patience wearing thin.

Geralt grunted in response but made no move to get out of the tub.

In truth, Nefeli desperately just wanted him to leave.

She felt that heat in her stomach and she wanted him to go so she could try to ignore it.