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That had to stop. Now.

He had vowed to make a Warsword of her, and pleasuring each other in front of the fire wasn’t a part of that. All those weeks ago, that reaper had found her alone, her power raw and untrained, a beacon to those lurking in the shadows who sought such things. And it had nearly taken her. It had nearly clamped its talons around her heart.

Now, there was a daughter of darkness seeking lost heirs. Now, there was a hunt for her.

Thea was watching him, her expression a mask of indifference. ‘So this changed nothing? It remains as it was between us?’ she asked, all emotion stripped from her tone, the blanket held tightly around her naked body.

Wilder allowed a beat of silence to follow. ‘You still want to be a Warsword?’

That unbroken tempest in her eyes was back. ‘Yes.’

‘Then it remains as it was.’

* * *

Try as he might, Wilder couldn’t sleep, not with her so close, not with the intoxicating scent of her lingering on his skin. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms and carry her to his bed. She’d accepted his choice, if one could call it that. A wise decision. For they couldn’t go down that road, the one of midnight embraces and slow, tender fucking until the early hours of the morning. Not if she was to pass the Great Rite. One of them had to see sense, and this time, it was him.

From where he lay as still as death in his bed, he could hear her murmuring in her sleep. Quiet pleas at first, then terrified whimpering and loud cries. His throat constricted as he heard her thrashing around in the blankets of her cot, and saw the outline of her limbs flailing against an enemy he couldn’t see.

It killed him. Every word of anguish from her lips had him rigid, guilt-ridden and desperate to help her.

Yet he did nothing. He had to leave her to face her demons alone. For that was exactly what the Great Rite would demand of her.

And he was determined to prepare her for that, no matter how brutally it tore his heart apart.

So Wilder settled in for a sleepless night, watching over her as she stood against the terrors of her own mind, her own memory.

* * *

When he woke, Thea was gone again. He didn’t like the fact that, once again, he hadn’t stirred as she’d readied herself for the day, hadn’t heard the water splashing in the bathing room or the door clicking shut behind her.

She was getting too stealthy for her own good.

He hauled himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of loose-fitting pants. In the living room, there was no note waiting for him. The silence was deafening. What had he expected? He’d gotten her naked and vulnerable, only to turn her away.

Raking a hand through his hair, he looked around his cabin. There was no sign that Thea had eaten or drunk anything before heading out; no mug on the side table, no plate or bowl. He knew well enough that she wouldn’t waste valuable training hours running back to the fortress to bother the cook before dawn.

Thea still wasn’t taking care of herself. Not enough food or water, not enough sleep. He’d have to change that. Sighing heavily, he opened his cupboards, searching through the various tins he’d collected over the years until he spotted the one he was looking for. Removing the lid, he sniffed its contents.

Peppermint tea; Thea’s favourite. He’d known it was in there somewhere. He set it down on the side table and found an overly large mug in his mismatched collection, setting that down too.

He couldn’t coddle her, couldn’t hold her hand through what it meant to become a Warsword. But this… this was something small. This he could do.

Wilder took the note she’d left him the previous day and turned it over. There, he inked a jagged lightning bolt of his own and propped the note against the tin. Hopefully she’d see it when she got back.

He’d have to work on the bigger picture more gradually, honing her discipline for not only working hard, but knowing when to stop, when to rest. That was just as hard as the drills and something she was clearly struggling with.

He ran through a list of things he still had to teach her in his mind. Then there were the actual things she needed – armour; new boots, most likely; decent tack for her horse…

Heaving another sigh, Wilder went to get dressed, but stopped short upon entering the bedroom again. Her corner of the room was neat but for the clothes he’d torn last night. A pang of guilt hit him low in the gut and he didn’t hesitate to scoop them up. It was still dark outside, and so for the next hour, he sat by the fire, mending her shirt and pants with a needle and thread.

As he sewed, he tried to keep the memories of her at bay.

He failed miserably.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THEA