The White Werewolf || Season One: Ties That Bind

Chapter Eight

Lyria, 1239

Robin waited while Geralt paid for a room at the inn. "Stay in town while I hunt the kikimora," he told her. "I'll be back soon."

"You're sure?" she asked worriedly.

He smiled. "It won't be the first kikimora I've killed. I'm sure."

"I was thinking of going to the market and looking for some books."

He nodded. "I think that's an excellent idea."

They left the inn together. She watched him ride off, taking a deep breath when he rounded the corner and she couldn't see him anymore. She would be truly unhappy if he didn't return, but she'd have to trust that he would.

There was only a small selection of books in the marketplace, but several of them would be useful to her. She purchased them all, being careful to not let anyone see how much money she actually had on her, and then went back to their room.

She undressed and called for water to do their laundry, cleaning out their bags while everything soaked. Geralt had taken the satchel with him, so she didn't have to worry about his elixirs. The fire was high and the room was comfortable, making her tasks even simpler. She had a meal once the chores were done and settled down to read.

Geralt returned just as the sun was slipping below the horizon. He was a bit of a mess and called immediately for a bath, setting up a screen so he had some privacy. She continued to read, not even speaking so he could take the time for himself.

When he'd finished and put on clean clothes, he requested that the bath and screen be removed and for dinner to be brought up. He nodded at her books as they sat down to eat together. "Anything good?" he wondered.

"They're basic," she answered, "but I figure I should start at the beginning. I imagine Melcedem missed a lot, and left out even more."

"Thank you for taking care of everything," Geralt continued.

"If I'm not allowed to say thank you to you for every little thing, you can't say it to me either," she protested playfully.

Geralt chuckled. "That's fair." He waved a hand at the one large bed in the room. "This was the only room they had. I'll sleep on the floor."

So he stretched out on the unyielding wood planks as she sank into the bed by herself. She felt a little silly, if she was being honest. He shouldn't have to sleep on the floor the one night they actually spent in an inn.

"Geralt, this is ridiculous," she finally muttered. "The bed is big enough for both of us. And it's cold."

The fire had seemed roaring earlier, but night had fallen, and the room was chilly in spite of it.

"I'm not cold," Geralt replied easily.

"Well, I am," she grumbled.

He laughed and pushed up off of the floor, keeping the sheet he'd taken from the bed wrapped around his waist.

As he laid down beside her, it dipped, and she couldn't help but stare. She hadn't realized he was naked, and the brief slip had made that fact very obvious.

He stretched out, humming contentedly as his large frame sank into the bed. He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, his silver hair fanning out around him on the pillow.

Her eyes continued to trace the impressive lines of his muscles. He was the kind of man you dreamed about and didn't think actually existed.

He was tall, broad, and strong, with a chiseled jaw and straight nose. He had dark stubble, underarm hair, and hair that covered his chest and trailed down his toned stomach into the sheet.

And that was just the beginning, really. If she were a poet, she could probably spend hours composing verses about him.

She had never been able to imagine herself with anyone, man or woman, before, except in the abstract. There had never been anyone who was a possibility. Like many other things, she had just assumed that sexual pleasure was lost to her.

Now, lying here beside him, she realized that it didn't necessarily have to be that way.

Her eyes swept back up to his chest. She was surprised to see that he had a scar. Based on the way the wound on his neck had healed, she wouldn't have thought it was possible. She supposed it could have happened before he became a werewolf, if he'd been cursed. She hadn't asked him about that yet.

"I can feel you staring," Geralt rumbled, making her jump. He chuckled as the movement rippled through the bed. "What are you thinking?"

She swallowed. "I was wondering how you have a scar. Did that happen... before you were turned?"

He shook his head, his eyes still shut. "I was never turned. I was born a werewolf. If I heal quickly, there's no scar. But if a wound is deep enough, and takes longer, I can scar just like a human."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. The corners of his lips turned up unexpectedly. "That's not what you were thinking about, Robin."

"How do you know?" she retorted, even though he was very, very right.

"Call it a lucky guess, if you'd like," he decided, opening his eyes and looking at her.

She supposed that some might find his eyes frightening, but she thought they were quite beautiful.

She reached out and tentatively put her hand on his chest, feeling the corded muscled underneath his slightly rough, damp skin.

"Would you be offended if I told you I was thinking about what it would be like to have sex with you?" she murmured.

Geralt's eyes swept her up and down. "No, I wouldn't. But I'm afraid I won't do for you. It was clear from your story that you're a... well."

She snorted as he trailed off. "What? You kill monsters for a living, but can't say the word virgin?"

"I'm not in the business of deflowering people," Geralt explained patiently. "I'm not suitable for you, Robin. You've seen my life. It's hard and it's long and it's never going to be anything other than what it is."

The words stung her more than she cared to admit. He was talking like she had asked him to settle down in a quaint little cottage in the woods, and it was far simpler than that. She just wanted him to bed her.

She thought about saying that, but realized she couldn't. She had opened up to him like she never had to anyone else, and somehow he had completely misunderstood her.

It was just too much to bear.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand, then slipped out of the bed. She was only wearing her shift, so she threw her cloak on over it before padding out of the room and down to the main floor of the inn.