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I keep my gaze away from the tent, lest anyone think to check for more bodies that may be hiding. Though if we all die and only little Roslyn is left to survive, can she really last long on her own in these temperatures? With a people who attack first and ask questions later and an undead army on the horizon?

I shake that horrifying thought from my mind and keep my gaze alert.

He doesn’t keep me waiting long.

Threydan strides through the trees, his eyes already on mine, as if he’d been watching me for some time. My stomach turns over at the thought.

How has the man not found a shirt yet? His tanned skin is smooth all over, except for that short cropping of hair atop his head. His eyes blaze brighter than ever, and a bit of blood is dried on his skin.

I don’t want to know whose it is.

He comes to a stop when he is a mere five feet from me.

A step closer, and I’d have gutted him. I still might, depending on his next move.

The lives of my crew are what stay my hand for now.

“Sorinda,” Threydan says. “Are you well?”

The question is so unexpected and jarring that a breathy laugh bordering on hysteria comes from my lips.

I say, “I’m pissed. You’ve attacked my crew without cause.”

“Attacked? No. Not a one of them has been hurt, including the little one in the tent.”

I swallow.

“I wouldn’t hurt your friends,” he says. “In fact, I helped you save one just a few hours ago, did I not?”

“Let them go if you mean them no harm.”

“Now that is something I cannot do until we have a proper chat.”

I say nothing.

He seems to find that amusing. “We did not finish the binding.”

“You’re not touching me again,” I spit out with every bit of venom I can manage.

I hear a few outbursts from some of the crew, as though they’re trying to agree with me, but most are silenced by undead hands covering their mouths.

“That, fortunately, is not true,” Threydan says. “We must if we’re to complete the binding. You are only partly mine. Resistant to only some of life’s dangers, it would seem. Hot and cold cannot harm you. Water cannot drown you. But the blade is still your weakness.”

“Reverse it,” I breathe out. “Make me able to feel again.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Cannot or will not?”

He hesitates a beat before saying, “Cannot.”

I don’t know if I can believe him, but my desire to return to myself is too great to trust his words.

“Find some other woman to make immortal. I don’t want your gifts.”

“Yet you have them, and they have already saved your life once.”

I say nothing to that. It is true, but I would have rather died than woken up chained to the ocean floor.