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She sometimes thought there was something very wrong with her. Because, despite the uniformly terrible experiences she’d had with men, she still craved them. It was why she’d almost been tempted by Jura. She knew how Varai men were. She knew they would never see her as an equal. Varai men, and probably all men except maybe Tahir, were selfish and cruel. But she still wanted them. She still yearned for their touch. She still desperately wanted their approval, their acceptance.

It was pitiable behavior. That was what Kashava would have thought of it, if Zara had ever told her. Zara did not make a habit of talking with her mothers about men.

So when the half-elf—who was a stranger and an antagonist in her life, no less—put his hands on her waist, a flush of embarrassing warm tension went through her, swirling in the pit of her stomach and between her legs.

If he had not rescued her from the hunter, and if he had not been speaking to her with such patience just now, the situation would have frightened her more.

“Ready?” he asked quietly. She just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He lifted her onto the behelgi and she hurriedly straightened her cloak as she climbed into the saddle. He climbed up easily behind her.

There was not much room in the saddle. His front pressed against her back. She tried not to think about the way his groin was nudging into her, or the fact that his thighs were flush with hers. It would have been much easier to ignore those things if he hadn’t been so attractive. Even when she kept her eyes resolutely at the back of the behelgi’s neck, she kept catching glimpses of him. His hands were larger than hers, fine-boned but strong and capable-looking. His hair draped beside her as he bent to retrieve something from the behelgi’s pack. Somehow, his hair never seemed to tangle. By all rights, it should have been matted and filled with twigs and dirt by now.

She didn’t know how she had so much mental energy to devote to her arousal so soon after almost dying. Apparently her body considered reproduction a top priority.

The half-elf straightened as he pulled a thick blanket from the pack and draped it over her.

She felt a flush creeping up her neck. “Thank you.”

He took the behelgi’s reins and guided them upriver. “I would prefer it if you didn’t die just yet,” he said gruffly. “As little as I care for Paladins, I did go to quite a lot of effort to get to you.”

“I told you, I am not a Paladin.”

“Then what are you?”

“Nothing. I am just me.”

“Whose side are you on? The Varai, or the Paladins?”

“Neither.”

“You can’t be sympathetic to both sides at once. You have to choose one.”

He’d misunderstood. “Not both,” she said. “Neither.”

Chapter 11

The human woman was leaning against Nero in the saddle, still shivering. Her blonde hair had gone limp and curled into damp ropes after her fall in the river, and it hung down her back, leaving wet streaks on her borrowed cloak. Every once in a while, she coughed violently, as if there was still river water in her lungs.

The mere sight of a Paladin stirred hatred in him, but he could not take joy in another person’s suffering. And there was something about a huddled and shivering woman that compelled him to help her, despite the fact that she was a friend of the Paladins, which was a sure sign of her poor character.

Anyone who could tolerate the company of Paladins for more than an hour was either an idiot or an asshole.

Unsurprisingly though, the Paladins were beloved by the vast majority of the Ardanian people. They’d been the first ones to pledge to deal with the growing night elf menace, after all.

The woman sighed, coughed, then sank back against him. Her head was just beside his, her neck and shoulder bare. He stared at that spot of bare skin.

It felt a bit like cuddling up to a damp, injured mountain cat.

He hadn’t expected her to fight back when he’d taken her. Ever since she’d stabbed him, he’d been twitchy, expecting to see her claws and teeth again as soon as he let his guard down. Maybe next time she’d stab the dagger into his throat instead of his thigh.

She was far more trouble than he’d anticipated. She was not as delicate as she looked—that had been made clear by the skill with which she handled his dagger—and she kept getting injured. He was finding that being responsible for the well-being of a prisoner was a lot of work.

To be fair, this was his first time kidnapping someone. It was safe to say he didn’t know what he was doing.

Nero tore his gaze away from that bare spot of smooth, pale skin, looking into the foggy mountains instead.

“Will you tell me where we are going?” the woman asked again, her voice hoarse. He didn’t reply. She sat a little straighter, waiting for him to respond, then sighed softly and leaned back again.