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“Why were you following me?” Fabric tore off his shirt. He reached out to her, offering a silent gesture toward the cut on her neck, now smeared and dried against her fiery skin.

Panting, Alora could only stare, leaning against the oak. The presence of his icy lips still hovered. Stilltastedhis vanilla and oak on her tongue, still felt his fingers through her hair and hands against her cheeks and thigh.

His hand remained extended, waiting, before she accepted the scrap and pressed it tight against the wound.

Coherent thoughts struggled to form even a sentence, wrestling with whateverthatjust was.

“You are going to make me ask twice?” He arched a brow.

Drunk. She felt utterly drunk as she pleaded with her mind to focus. “I … I don’t know.” Her voice shook. “You were gone all day. I saw you leaving your tent, armed. I hadn’t seen you like that since Telldaira.” She rolled her lips in on themselves and rubbed her death mark nervously.

Garrik’s face paled for a flash before a wolfish grin climbed up the side of his face. “So, you missed me then?”

“I didn’t say that,” she snapped.

Garrik chuckled. “I went to see Aiden in Galdheir. Now that I know you cannot live a day without me, I will invite you next time.” He pulled a sleeve over his arm, then the other.

She kicked at the loose dirt under the tree to hit him with it.

Dirt bounced off his pants. Garrik amusingly breathed a laugh.

Alora scanned his scars in the torchlight. A small breeze tickled the open sides of his tunic as the flickering glow of the annulus danced over the raised ridges.

He registered her curiosity and his grin straightened. “Go ahead and ask about them. Most want to. They are too damn scared to.”

She wondered how many he had allowed to see them? Of what the result was when they did? How many, outside of his legion, still carried breath that dared to call on him about them? How many did he share his past with, if any at all?

But she hesitated, much like everyone else likely did. Did she truly want to know the answer? “Who…” Failing, fumbling over the words. “Who did this to you?”

Garrik’s face was unreadable. “The High King.” He swallowed hard, and Alora fought off a wave of bile rising in her throat.

His… father …did this?

“And a few others. He allowed them to conduct their desires and steal pleasures from me—many years ago.” Deep pain flashed in those enchanting eyes. Garrik’s face dropped as he gently rubbed down his abdomen, over the display of brutality that expanded past his pant line.

Alora’s heart sank into her stomach. Throat constricting until her breaths felt painful at the thought, at how deep the scars went. “Your father?—”

“He was never a father to me,” Garrik growled. “I was never treated as his son. He is High King, nothing more.” Picking up his sword before slamming it so brutally into the sheath that it threatened to cleave through, Garrik released a second growl, and she felt the air thicken in his burning rage.

Why did he do this to you?Alora felt as if she would vomit as the question she wasn’t even sure she wanted the answer to surfaced.

“I refused something that he commanded.” Garrik stepped closer to her. “So he ordered his ilk to”—he rolled his eyes to the sky before breathing deep—“convince me otherwise.”

Alora rubbed her upper arm, relentless tears dropped down her skin. “I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach out, to offer asoothing touch like the one she desperately needed on so many nights with Kaine.

“Don’t be. The scars remind me of who I once was. Before I was made into the monster that the stories tell of.” Garrik slowly walked away and sat on a fallen tree outside the ring of torches. “You saw some of it at the games, in the alley. You could have seen it in the bar if that pompous asshole would have continued with you and challenged me.”

Alora settled beside him. “That’s why you won’t spar with anyone in camp?” Her tone warm, understanding.

Garrik was silent for a few moments as if scouring the entire realm for the words to say. When he did speak, his voice was caged, almost leery to offer a vital piece of weakness. “When I am fighting, I see … black. Even in training. Something inside me changes—I cannot control it for long until I am completely lost inside my mind. I will not train with my Dragons. I will hurt, even kill, anyone. I … cannot stop myself”—Garrik closed his eyes and shook his head—“even if I wanted to.”

“You jumped in the ring with me at the games. You weren’t afraid of what could happen? Why didn’t you just let me fight?”

He sighed. “I have barely seen you fight with a sword and your magic is adolescent at best.”

Alora crossed her arms and speared him with an unimpressed glare.

He frustratingly frowned back. A quiet apology. “Most fighters wait months before joining the games. They allow time to train until their skills are perfected. I was.” He sighed again. “Worriedabout you falling injured. And against my reasonable judgment, I knew if I could force you to yield quick enough, no one could harm you.Iwould not hurt you.”