Page 174 of War

I wake to a horrible churning in my stomach. I catch a whiff of my undead guards, and immediately, I scramble off my pallet, frantically shoving my way out of the tent.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth.

Going to be sick.

I don’t make it more than several meters before I retch. My guards stand idly by, and the smell of them—

I vomit again and again, that fetid scent caught in my nose.

Need the guards to move away.

Behind me, I hear another set of tent flaps thrown open.

“Miriam?” Zara’s voice is groggy. “Are you okay?”

I can’t answer, not until my stomach is completely empty. Even then I lean on my knees, breathing heavily.

“Stay away from me,” I rasp, turning around and heading back to my tent. “I’m sick.”

Zara doesn’t stay away. She comes over and brings me water and bread and fruit and fresh yogurt. I manage to choke down some of the bread and a bite or two of a dried apricot. The sight of the yogurt makes me gag, so she takes it away.

“Really, Zara, you need to stay away from me. I could get you sick—or Mamoon.”

“We’ll be fine. I do need to get back to my tent, but I’ll come back later,” she says. “I expect you to finish off all the water I’ve left for you.” She sounds like my mother. “And try to eat. You haven’t been …” Her brows furrow, and for the first time, I see that she’s worried about me.

I wave her off. “I’ll be fine.”

With a final, worried look at me, she slips out, and I’m left to drift back off to sleep.

I wake tothe sound of heavy, familiar footfalls outside. They reach my tent, then stop.

I blink my eyes open just as the tent flaps are thrown back.

War stoops inside, and I have to suck in a breath at the sight of him. I’d forgotten how inhumanly handsome he is, with his olive skin and dark eyes, his black hair hanging wildly about his face.

He takes one look at me. “Miriam.”

At the sound of his voice and the concern that furrows his brows, I close my eyes. I thought I had lost whatever it was we had. But it’s still right there.He’sright there.

War kneels at my side. His hand goes to my hair, the tattoos on his knuckles glowing red, and he strokes my dark locks back just as he has so many nights before this.

I open my eyes again. “I missed you.”

That wasnotsupposed to come out of my lips.

His face softens. War studies my features, like he’s trying to memorize them. He frowns, the concern back on his face. “Are you sick?” There’s a sharp, almost frantic look to his eyes.

“The dead—” I begin. Just the thought of them has me gagging. “The smell—can you get rid of them?”

I hear footfalls moving away from my tent, and I know without asking again that War sent off his zombies. It takes a little longer for their scent to fade away, but once it does, I relax a bit more.

War is in my tent. And he’s just as I remember—gold pieces in his hair, kohl ringing his eyes, vast expanses of muscle. Even his black on black attire is exactly how I remember it.

I try not to stare at his devastating face and his thick arms. I’m feeling too miserable to do anything more than eye-bang the crap out of him.

“Need my brother for this,” War comments, still studying my face.

“What?” I ask, alarmed.