Chapter 15: Her Terms

MacAlister Lodge had a bathhouse built over a hot spring behind the stable.

Rodrick had never told me about it.

I found it that night by following the steam, and then I went back inside and took him by the sleeve.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"You tore your stitches this morning, and you didn't say a word."

"They're fine."

"They're bleeding through your shirt, Rodrick."

He looked down at it.

I walked him out across the snow, and he let me.

The bathhouse was one stone room with a pool sunk into the floor, a lantern on a hook, and steam standing in the air like breath.

I sat him on the bench, cut off the bandage and checked the wound by lantern light.

Two of my stitches had pulled.

I closed them with the needle and said nothing, and he held perfectly still the whole time.

When I tied off the last one, I put the needle in his hand.

"Now hear my terms," I said.

His mouth moved at one corner.

"Of course you have terms."

"I'm a woman of terms. First, you don't decide what I can bear."

He stopped smiling.

"Second, you don't bleed alone. If you go anywhere to do anything that could get you hurt, you tell me before you go, and I come."

"Tegan."

"Third, you say my name when you want me. Not 'the Haskins woman.' Not 'her.' My name."

"Tegan," he said, low.

"Good."

I started on the buttons of my shirt.

His eyes followed my fingers, and the lantern showed me how hard he was working to keep his hands on his own knees.

"You said I was a guest," I told him. "I'm not a guest. I'm going to be here for as long as I choose, and I'm choosing tonight."

"Then tell me what you want."

"I want you to sit still."

He sat still.

I took my time.

I let the shirt drop and then the leathers, and I watched his chest rise and fall.

"The old terms said you never touch me," I said, "without my say."

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