Page 23

And she’ll be damned if she remains within reaching distance of a half-Glacian.

Crouching low, she skirts the smoldering embers. She crawls carefully over Ryon’s sleeping form and around his back. Ryon slumbers on, unaware, his eyelids flickering lightly. From his breeches, she slides her blade free and then her hatchet–

Ryon moves. One moment, he is lying still on his side; the next, everything is in motion and he is atop her.

Dawsyn gasps as his weight presses her to the floor. The length of his body lies upon hers. Thighs along thighs. His stomach lifts and falls against her pelvis. Through his thin tunic, her trapped hands measure his racing heartbeats. She sees only his face – deep set eyes, dark lashes, stubbled jaw.

“That took you a little longer than I expected,” he says evenly.

She huffs out a breath. “I was tired.”

“And where do you plan to go, Dawsyn?” he asks. Her name is coarse in his throat. “I thought we understood each other.”

“I understand little, as you’ve made sure of.” His chest pins hers and the words are pushed from her lungs.

He rolls away from her then, but his face remains close. “We are allied by a common goal, girl. Once you realize that, I’ll give you your ax back.”

The moment stutters. The pair linger. Ryon’s eyes scan over her face. Dawsyn swears she hears him breathe her in.

He crouches abruptly, stowing the bowl and the burlap sack away in the warren. There is a hole in the wall, like a shelf. When she looks more closely, she sees other things stowed along it. A blunt knife, a small length of rope, a pair of boots.

“You’ve been here before,” she accuses.

He nods. “Only fools traipse the slopes without planning for shelter, girl.”

“And what need have you had to traipse the slopes?”

He smirks. “I enjoy travel. Is that so hard to believe?”

“I find it hard to believe you prefer a warren to a palace.”

“Perhaps I prefer solitude.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t be having such a hard time disappearing.”

“You know what they say – keep the violent, ax-wielding females close.” With that, he turns to the tunnel, readying himself to climb out into the open. “Nature calls,” he says and then heaves his form through and out.

While he is gone, Dawsyn checks her wounds. The stitches have broken on one side. She has to peel back the bodice’s fabric, the dried blood gluing it to her skin. They have not fouled… yet. For that, she is lucky. Next, she removes her boots and releases her feet from their confines. Her lips tremble as the blood rushes to her crumpled toes. At least two are broken, black and swollen. The others have bled through the cracks of the toenails that remain. The skin on both heels has rubbed away, leaving white flesh behind, tinged pink with broken vessels. She bites into the hem of her skirt and tears away a strip, but when she goes to cover a heel, she blanches. There will be no flesh left on the bone by the time she makes it down the mountain.

Tears streak her cheeks of their own accord, and she wraps each foot thoroughly, now thankful for the too-many layers of skirts. She crawls to the wall of the warren and pulls out the boots placed carefully in their crevice. Ryon’s feet are perhaps twice Dawsyn’s size and her feet swim inside them. She will trip in them, but they will not crush her feet into pulps.

As Ryon returns, Dawsyn is tenderly slipping her abused, bandaged feet into his spare boots.

He frowns deeply. “Can you run?”

“I’ll manage.”

“I can’t fly us in the daylight,” he tells her. “If the others see us, we’ll be followed. I cannot risk that.”

She glares up at him. “I wouldn’t let you fly me if my feet were worn to stumps.”

He tilts his head, considers her. “I’d wager you would.”

Dawsyn grits her teeth. The tone reminds her so thoroughly of the miscreants on the Ledge that her fist yearns to meet his face. “I’ll take that bet.”

Ryon balances on his heels, his hands clasped between his bent knees. “If I win, I get to keep your ax.”

“Why on earth would you want my ax?”