Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
I look down at myself—crusted leather pants, patches of dried blood, what could be a dollop of bird shit, and whatever else has congealed in the creases. My nose twitches. I smell like I’ve been through a bog and a back-alley brawl with a swamp hag. She’s probably horrified.
“I haven’t exactly had access to modern plumbing,” I mutter defensively.
“I have soap. Several kinds, including chamomile,” she says, all sunshine and sin. She tosses me a bar. “That one’s got goat's milk in it.”
I rise to my feet and take the towel she hands me—the smallest in existence—and make my way to the tub. It’s the size of a wine barrel. I’m the size of three wine barrels. We are not a match made in bathing heaven.
I strip and squeeze myself in anyway. My knees hit my chest. My foot knocks the faucet. The soap shoots out of my hand like a greased piglet.
“Why is this soap so slippery?” I mutter, smacking my elbow on the rim.
Water splashes everywhere. I curse so loudly, I’m surprised I don’t shatter the tub.
I’m only mildly concussed when I finally haul myself out, dripping and grumpy but cleaner than I’ve been for days. The world’s tiniest towel barely covers my crown jewels as I clutch it in front of my groin and step out of the bathroom.
Rapunzel—dressed in a plain white nightgown that hides everything and somehow still manages to be the most seductive thing I’ve ever seen—looks up. And goes utterly still. Her breath hitches. I become acutely aware of every droplet tracing a path down my chest, of how her eyes follow them, slow and deliberate, like mist gliding down the slope of a mountain.
“Got a spare shirt?” I ask, pretending I don’t notice the way she swallows hard.
She turns and grabs something from the bed, hurling the fabric at my face, her cheeks bright red. “That’s the best I can do unless you want a corset and petticoat.”
It’s another nightgown. This one floral and ruffled. Designed for someone half my width and a third my height.
“You want me to wear this?”
She shrugs. “I’d give you the bedsheet, but it’s the only one I have.”
I eye the dainty excuse for clothing. It wouldn’t fit my thigh, let alone the rest of me. Tugging it at the seams, I fashion what’s left into something that vaguely resembles a sarong. I knot it at my hip with a muttered prayer to the gods of structural integrity while my dignity dies a quiet death in the corner.
Rapunzel claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing with mirth.
I glare. “Say a word.”
“You look… fetching,” she whispers.
I shrug. “Dignity: zero. Comfort: surprisingly high.”
Her mouth twitches. “I never thought I’d see an orc in a floral wrap.” Then she sobers a little. “I’ll wash your clothes.”
I glance at the crusted leather pants and torn shirt abandoned near the tub. “Might be easier to burn them.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But they’re yours. You’ll want something manly to put back on after your spa day.”
“Are you saying this”—I gesture to the floral sarong hugging my hips—“doesn’t scream raw masculinity?”
“Oh, it screams something.” She giggles, a bright peal of sound that makes my blood heat, gathering my dirty clothes like she’s holding a filth-bomb. “If I die, bury me in the forest and avenge me with great violence.”
“I’ll write your eulogy in blood,” I promise solemnly.
She flashes a grin over her shoulder that does funny things to my heart as she disappears into the bathroom.
I cross the room and drop to sit on the rug in front of the stove, where the fire crackles. The flames pop and shadows dance along the walls. I sit cross-legged, warm air curling against my damp skin. My wet hair drips in lazy rivulets down my spine. Every so often, I glance toward the bathroom, where I hear Rapunzel humming to herself while scrubbing my clothes.
As she sings, I notice a small flower blooming from one of the roots. I frown. Strange.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I call out. “I’ve lived with worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” she replies, voice light but eyes tracking me carefully. “But you don’t have to anymore.”
My heart stutters. I’m not used to kindness. Not like this. Not from someone soft and sunny. Someone who looks at me like I’m not a monster. Like I’m worthy of care.
She reappears with a small pile of washed clothes, hanging them near the stove to dry. “They should be dry by morning, and then I’ll see if I can repair your shirt.”
“Thank you.”
She sits beside me on the rug, close but not touching. Her bare toes peek out from under her nightgown. Gods, even her toes are cute.
“Where were you going?” she asks softly. “Before my hair yanked you in here?”
I stare into the flames. The words taste like ash before I even speak them. “Nowhere. I was wandering. Lost.”