The Faceless Woman by Emma Hamm (i love reading .txt) 📕

her hair over her shoulder and knelt at his side. “May I?”

The raven eye whirled, but he nodded. “I think it’s completely healed.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He shifted forward, reaching behind his head and pulling off his shirt. The movement was filled with natural grace. He didn’t hesitate in the slightest, not embarrassed by his form or body.

Aisling hadn’t planned to ogle him like a little girl seeing her first crush in the river, but she swallowed hard and glanced down all the same.

She’d seen his chest, touched the broad expanse of muscle, but he’d been injured, and she’d felt his pain. Now, her mind was clear from the lingering effects of magic.

Smooth skin filled her vision. Not a single mark marred him, no scars, no bruises, nothing but hills and valleys between muscles created by the finest artist.

His shoulders were broad and tapered to a thin waist. His chest was effortlessly flat, and muscles flexed on his stomach as he leaned back against the tree. Twin bands arched over his hips and disappeared underneath the waistband of his pants, an arrow for her eyes to follow.

She swallowed again. “How is your shoulder?”

“You aren’t looking at my shoulder.”

The amusement in his voice stung. She flicked her gaze to him, fuming at his knowing grin. He couldn’t even see her face but, somehow, he knew.

Her pride refused to allow him to keep that satisfied smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m more interested in making sure you aren’t going to hurt me anymore.”

“Some pain can be fun.”

“Is that why you’re Unseelie?” She reached out and skimmed her fingers over the wound surface, which was now the only red mark on the warm expanse of skin. “You like pain a little too much?”

“I’m Unseelie because I think rules are made to be broken.”

Her nostrils flared as the scent of pomegranate and wine skimmed her face. His breath feathered across her skin like the most delicate of touches, heat fanning across her skin as if she stood in front of a fire. When had he moved so close?

He touched her shoulder, trailing his fingers over the rough fabric of his shirt up to the line of her neck. “It’s strange,” he murmured, “the spell starts where I can see your pulse racing.”

“My pulse isn’t racing.”

“You could have fooled me, witch.” The nickname sounded different now. He shaped the word with his tongue, lovingly stroking the letters until the harsh sound softened into a caress.

Aisling licked her lips. “Fooled you how?”

“Does the curse only hide your face?” he asked, the question hauntingly familiar. “Or can I touch you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me,” she breathed.

“Then let me be your first.”

She was frozen, in fear or in anticipation she couldn’t tell. Aisling held her breath as his long fingers slid up her neck. From wherever he touched, heat spread, like tendrils of light splintering throughout her body.

His thumb traced the line of her jaw. He had calluses on the pads of his fingers, the rough texture catching on her soft skin. It wasn’t a working man’s hand. His palms were as smooth as hers.

“You play music,” she gasped as his fingers smoothed over her chin.

“Sometimes.”

“You have calluses on your fingertips.” She only recognized them because a fiddler had once stopped and asked her for a salve to smooth his own. He played for royalty, he had said, and calluses were a sign of a working man.

“Sh.” He hushed her and pressed his fingers to her lips. She held her breath as he stroked the soft outline, lingering in the dip of her cupid’s bow.

Bran smiled, his eyes drifting closed as he concentrated. “I thought you would have thin lips.”

“Why?”

“Shrews usually do.” He traced her frown, chuckling. He lifted his other hand and gently smoothed both hands over her cheeks. “You have a heart-shaped face.”

She didn’t respond. He would gather too much information if she admitted she didn’t actually know what her face looked like. It had been too many years since the curse hid her reflection.

His fingertips ghosted over her brow, feathering over her long lashes, and then tracing the thin line of her nose.

She stared at his expression, watching his own brows draw down. “Witch, I do believe you are a beautiful woman.”

“What would make you say that?”

“I know perfection when I touch it.”

Aisling didn’t know what to say or how to feel about that. She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue touching his thumb where he’d started tracing her bottom lip again. They both froze. His eyes flew open and impossibly locked on hers.

Lurching back, she stumbled away so quickly she almost ended up in the fire. She cleared her throat and shook her head. “There’s no such thing as perfection, Unseelie.”

“Bran.”

“Unseelie.” She needed the distance between them right now. He wasn’t some young man she met on her travels. He was a dark Fae, the kind that could rip her limb from limb and feel no guilt about it.

She was wasting her time on something that could never be.

Lorcan flicked his tail away from the fire and glared. “Are you quite done? Give him the blood and get it over with.”

“The blood?” Aisling shook her head. “Oh, the blood.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the ruby-like droplet. It was as beautiful as it was strange, pulsing against her palm with a heartbeat of its own. Her chest clenched.

The drop of blood didn’t want her to give it away. It wanted to stay tucked against her thigh, safe and sound.

Bran huffed out an angry breath, his eyes widening. “You still have it on you?”

“What else was I supposed to do with it? It’s the blood of a god, Bran.”

He yanked his shirt back on and scrambled to the pack. Fumbling with the leather bag, he finally got it open and held it out to her with shaking hands. “Put it in here, quickly.”

“Why?” She looked down and realized her fingers had unconsciously