Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)
Betrayer: Chapter 12

Kassandra leads me to another dome-shaped tent, this one without steam. My pulse thunders in my ears. It’s not empty. Gabriel entered before we did. He sits on a chair, wearing that strip of cloth.

A table occupies the center of the room. A terracotta jar perches on top. Two small braziers burn frankincense.

Surely, Olah is laughing at me.

Kassandra nods at the cloak she gave me before she led me here. “Take it off.”

Take it off? As in, in front of him?

Why? So, he can stare at me again and say, “You will do.”

I swallow through the strong urge to protest and pull the cloak free.

The hem of Kassandra’s surcoat skims the ground as she moves to the table and nods toward the jar. “This is cardamom and olive oil. You will rub it on each other’s bodies.”

My heart slips right out of my chest at those words. She wants me to rub what on Gabriel’s body? Oil?

Has she gone mad?

Heat floods my cheeks as I think of doing precisely that, rubbing oil all over his muscles. I cough and stare down at my feet.

“It will bring you closer, bonding you both physically and emotionally,” she says.

Isn’t that what bedding is for?

I cough again to the point my eyes blur, and my ears ring.

Kassandra pats me on the back. “Are you all right?”

Do I look like I’m all right to her?

I’m wearing next to nothing. I’m in another tent with that warrior. And he’s sitting there with a piece of cloth around his body. Thank the sky, he keeps his legs tilted away from me.

“I’ll leave you now,” Kassandra says, snapping my attention back to the present.

Before I think of a response, she steps out of the tent, leaving me with Gabriel.

Again.

I lift my eyes, taking in the warrior sitting in that chair as if it’s a throne. He keeps his shoulders straight, his chin lifted, and his arms folded across his body.

“Kyanite,” Gabriel says, his tone commanding. “Come here.”

This man is far too bossy.

Shall I fetch a rope for him? Then, he could just lasso me and pull me to wherever he wants.

I curse beneath my breath and walk to where he sits. He reaches for the jar and dips his hand into the oil. I let out a quick breath when he grabs my arm and pulls me close enough for my thighs to dig into his knees.

“We don’t have to prolong this part or spend unnecessary time on it,” he says evenly. “They will notice if you don’t smell like this oil, though.”

They?

As if understanding my thoughts, he adds, “The council.”

“Oh.”

The word barely leaves my lips before he runs the oil along my arm, raising goosebumps against my skin. I flinch as he grabs my other hand, turns me slightly, and spreads it on my side.

It’s not terrible. It should be terrible, his touch. The feel of his fingertips gliding along my body.

He stands and rotates me until my back is to him. My breath hitches as I catch sight of our silhouettes on the wall of the tent. He’s large. I’m small. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulders.

Why didn’t I notice how tall and broad he is before? I mean, I noticed. It’s hard not to note. But here, all alone with him, I really notice. He possesses strength and raw power—the kind obtained from summers of wielding a blade.

He repeats his actions, dipping his hand into the mixture and rubbing it slowly along my shoulders, my spine. I bite the inside of my lip and focus on the torch in the nearby sconce. It throws amber shadows over the walls, creating a distraction for a breath before Gabriel moves my hair and slides his fingers along the back of my neck.

I let out a shuddering breath, and his touch stills.

Don’t mock me. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Please, don’t mock me.

“That’s enough oil,” he says, his voice distant. “Here.”

He pulls me around, grabs my hand, and pushes it into the mixture. I gasp at the sensation of the oil against my fingers. Before I have time to think, to breathe, he places my palm against his chest. My mouth turns dry, and I try to compel my hand to move. It remains frozen against him.

“Shall I do it myself?” he asks, snapping me from the spell he put on me the moment I touched him.

“I can do it.” Still, my hand doesn’t move. I try to not stare at him. It’s impossible to move my gaze from his wall of strength.

“Can you?” he asks, his voice teasing my inability to focus on my task.

It should be simple. Shouldn’t it?

“Of course, I can.” I swallow again and force my hand to move over him.

Don’t think.

Please, don’t think.

The sky above. It’s impossible to not think about what I’m doing. It’s the first time I have touched a man like this. It’s too intimate. Too compelling. As if, at each stroke of my fingers against him, I’m lured into the seduction he weaves.

Ridiculous. He’s not trying to seduce me.

I hiss out a quick breath and consider grabbing the jar and dousing him with it. Then, I’d be free to leave, and he’d smell how the council expects him to.

I freeze when he grabs my wrist and yanks my hand away. My focus lowers to his chest where five fingernail indentations mark his skin.

I clawed him?

“I’m sorry,” I breathe as heat flames my cheeks.

“As much as I enjoy a little roughness, you may want to leave the foreplay for later.” The humor in his tone only adds to my embarrassment as he reaches for a cloth and hands it to me.

“But I…” I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale. Why couldn’t I do this?

“Here.” He takes the linen from me and wipes away the excess oil from my hands.

Get it together, Sol. I inhale, taking it a deep breath of the cardamom and olive oil. Then, I slowly exhale. Find your calm.

I open my eyes as he picks up my cloak and places it around my shoulders.

“Kassandra will be back for you shortly.”

“Thank you,” I mumble. I have nothing else to say. No words. No excuses. Nothing that would explain my embarrassing actions.

He offers a curt nod and exits the tent.

The moment I’m alone, I slap my hands against my mouth. I clawed him. He will probably be bruised tomorrow.

Why couldn’t I just rub the oil on him? I have touched men before. Especially when tending to their injuries.

There was something about Gabriel and all those muscles. The heat of his body beneath my fingertips. The stirring deep in my belly.

Hades!

He’s Bloodstone.

I shouldn’t give him a second thought.

But I do—over and over again until Kassandra enters the tent.

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