The Lost Elixir

Chapter Sixteen

Jarrah hadn't realized he was watching Rayne until it was too late.

He hadn't meant to be. He never meant to, and yet, that was all he seemed to be doing lately since they first warmed up to one another a few days before. Watching her string a bow, weave leaf dresses, and even something as uninteresting as washing her face in a fresh stream that starkly captured her reflection. Something about the way her full lips tilted into teasing smiles after the refreshing droplets dripped off long lashes and slithered down her high cheekbones made his heart clench.

Jarrah would remind himself to look away, and thankfully, she never caught him.

Not until that day, anyway.

She wasn't even doing anything out of the ordinary. In fact, she was just about to catch their dinner for the next few nights. Standing behind a tree with her curls hoisted into a messy bun, she patiently waited for their elk to line up with the pointed stone on the end of her arrow. He couldn't think of a time in the last few days since he first gave her the bow when she wasn't using it.

When eyeing her stance, Jarrah hardly realized the length of time his eyes lingered on her body. First, it was with the way her arms were poised, her fingers wrapped around the arrow that rested on top of the string. Then, it turned to her body's position as she faced an unsuspecting elk with her wide hips facing him, tilted. He almost choked when he glanced at the swell of her heaving chest, and quickly looked back up at her face, though it did nothing to drown out the pounding in his ears.

Jarrah clenched his fingers and tucked them against his sides when he crossed his arms. The urge to trace her features pulsed in his fingertips. He didn't think anyone could ever get bored staring at the soft confines of what made Rayne, Rayne. Most Fae were more elegant, graceful with their slender bodies constantly moving as if they had a thousand years to live.

But Rayne wasn't elegant. She tripped over twigs, didn't hone into her senses like she should, and was as graceful as a fawn. It was almost comical really, but he found it all the more endearing.

Rayne didn't take notice of it, but everything around them waited on her beck and call. The forest listened to her, the sun kissed her until her bronze cheeks gathered a rosy tinge, the water caressed her, and the moon? The moon gave Rayne her power. The power to shift into the animal the moon goddess adored most, and on nights she didn't shift, her skin drank in the energy of the moon's light.

Someone distantly called his name and he blinked, his mind wandering back to the surface and away from the image of her angelic face sleeping beneath the milky light. His gaze captured her confused one and realized she no longer had the arrow. He looked over at the elk and noted that it was indeed dead.

"Is everything okay?" Rayne asked, frowning. "You seemed really out of it."

"Oh uh, I'm fine," he dismissed, drawing in a shaky breath. She was moving closer to him, her scent drifting to his nose as if he personally invited over the sweet scent. She smelled like freedom mixed with a subtle hint of wildflowers and oranges. Granted, they did have oranges that morning, but somehow the scent lingered around her, igniting something needy in the pit of his stomach.

Rayne tentatively reached out a smooth hand and removed some random debris off his shirt. He nearly shivered under her soft touch and mentally scolded himself for such a reaction. He was supposed to marry Terryn in a few months for goodness sake!

Terryn was his second closest friend growing up. He couldn't hurt her when he was the one who asked her to be his betrothed. She may have offered the six months to think it over, but he told her he didn't even need those six months to decide. That he would agree to the six months for her sake, but he was ready for the commitment. Besides, his parents loved Terryn and told him not to mess the arrangement up.

But now . . . now he was going against everything he believed in.

Ergh! What a foolish thought. A thought that made little sense, considering the Fae and the wolf hated each other. But there he was, mentally entertaining the idea of Rayne as being more than a travel companion. It was reckless. But the exact kind of recklessness he craved.

Jarrah's eyes drank her wide brown ones in. A question lingered in their clear depths and he debated on whether he wanted her to ask it or not.

Her pink, petal-soft lips moved and he swallowed thickly. She had said something, but he was too distracted. Everything was too muffled and all he could focus on was the erratic drum in his chest that wanted to burst free. There wasn't much distance between them. All it would take was a bend of the hips, the closing of an eye, the move of a hand, and—

He stopped himself. Terryn. His kingdom. He had to think of them.

That barely helped, considering he wasn't in love with Terryn and she gave him time to figure out his own feelings, but he had to think of something. And all the ways he wanted to kiss Rayne wasn't helpful going to help him in the slightest.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, clearing his throat. He took a small step back and inhaled a breath of fresh air. Unfortunately, the oranges were still in proximity. There was no escaping them. "What did you say?"

Rayne nibbled on the corner of her lip and gestured to the elk. "I was asking if you could teach me how to make sinew. With the fibers."

Jarrah pushed away the pride that rose from deep within his belly at her eagerness to learn, and he nodded his head furiously. Finally, a distraction. "Of course. We need to skin it first so I'll uh, go ahead and do that."

He really needed to get it together. And fast.

For the next few hours, he went to skinning. He explained how to find the fiber tissues and the best way to soak them in water so she could separate the strands much easier later. She watched attentively, taking everything in like the good student she was and asking questions when needed. Her fingers would briefly touch his whenever she pointed to the fibers and he knew without a doubt that the longer she squatted beside him, the more he'd want to grab that precious face and taste the oranges for himself.

"Okay, now gather some water from the stream. It won't be warm since the sun is already almost down, but I can heat it," he explained, gesturing over to the water. "I have that bowl in your bag."

Rayne perked up and dug in her backpack for the dish. It didn't take long to find and she was eagerly gathering the water and coming back with a demanding, "What's next?" she asked, shoving the bowl into his open hands.

He chanted to the Creator under his breath, and the warmth that radiated from his fingertips bled into the bowl, heating the water. "I'm afraid the next part is pretty boring. They need to soak in the water for a little while until they're usable."

She pouted at that and he chuckled. "Don't look so dejected, Rayne. It's just a few hours."

"I know," she sighed, reaching into the bowl at the same time he did to test the water.

Their fingers brushed against each other again with the movement. Jarrah swallowed as a different rush of heat radiated through his fingertips and up the expanse of his arm until the pounding organ in his chest made its way to his ears. His lungs constricted at the simple touch, and his body tensed at the foreign tingling spreading from the top of his head down to the pads of his toes.

Jarrah and Rayne's gazes found each other in a catastrophic clash. And of all that's sacred, to make matters worse, he wondered if she could hear his body's natural response to her. Were her hands clamming up too? Her breathing growing more labored the longer he stared? Was she just as confused as he was?

He didn't know. He just knew he couldn't look away from her for the life of him. But who would ever want to with a vision like that in front of them? Like, how often do people get to witness the cluster of freckles over the bridge of Rayne Leighann Vance's nose? Had anyone seen eyelashes that long? With hair so unruly that he could count at least five different curl patterns?

Never.

Jarrah held his breath. Her lashes fell in a hypnotizing blink. And then someone's pinky finger curled around the other. He thought his breath faltered, and hers picked up speed. Then—

"Well, well, well. Someone's a little far from their silver tray, aren't they?" A chillingly familiar voice echoed smoothly into the clearing, freezing Jarrah into place.

No.