Page 19

With this dismissal, I step out into daylight.

The sun is warm on my skin after the tense air of the tent, but nothing can be warm enough to ease my tension.

I need to grab Quin and get Akilah out. My eyes flick to the guards flanking me, the last barrier before I reach Quin, and just as I hope I’ve slipped past them unnoticed, a voice calls, “Oy. The commander told you to feed his hound. He means right away.”

I freeze and suppress a wince, gaze sharpening anxiously on the commander’s tent before focusing on the soldier who is jerking his thumb over his shoulder, presumably in the direction of the hound.

With twelve sets of Wyrd eyes on me, I glide demurely around the back of the commander’s tent.

The shadows are short at this time of day, but along with the sudden scent of hay and dust, there’s a sudden shift in feeling behind me.

The hairs on my nape prickle and I know I’m being followed.

It’s not Quin and his cane, but the Wyrd.

His presence feels thick and sticky, like he’s going to be hard to shake off.

“Hound’s barking mad,” he says, swaggering up to my side, breath wet at my temple. “I’ll help you.”

He touches my elbow and I grit through it as he steers me to the war hound. The snarling dog has its own spacious tent in a fenced area with room to move and hay to sleep in. I shake off the Wyrd under the guise of getting food: preserved snake meat, sitting on a shelf beside some large sacks.

The hound claws eagerly at his fence, frantic, but as I lean down to grab the snake meat, the air shifts.

I feel his hands clamp around me, crushing me into heat and muscle.

The sudden pressure of his chest against my back has me choking out a strangled sound.

My blood grows cold as he wraps himself closer and starts shifting my skirts as he murmurs in my ear.

Vile bastard. Taking advantage of someone he thinks is a weak woman.

I shove his hands off me and he laughs, snatching me again, tighter this time. “Might die tomorrow. Let me have this.”

My female voice lacks the punch I want. “Let go of me!”

“I like it when you squirm.”

I grab a handful of snake meat and walk back into his arms. He’s not expecting it and staggers a few steps into the fence, where he gets his balance and starts jerking up my skirt. Bastard! I wrap my arm behind me and him and dangle the snake meat.

The hound rushes for it and I slip it into the Wyrd’s pants just in time for the hound to take a massive bite through the gap in the fence.

The Wyrd howls, dropping his arms from me, and I grab my knockout powder, whirl around, and punch him with some in the nose.

He’s surprised at my force for a brief moment before the powder hits and he falls to the ground. My chest heaves, my fingers locked into a fist, bracing in case he surges up again, but... nothing.

A sudden sharp, powerful gust slams into the tent and I look up from the Wyrd to Quin, his cane digging into the dirt beneath him. The ferocious look in his eye is slicing through the Wyrd like a blade. The intensity of it feels so protective, I’m able to breathe again.

Quin thrusts himself over the space separating us in a single moment. He hauls me close and inspects me carefully. His eyes meet every inch of me with concern and the fear I felt before is replaced by another kind of fear. One that pulls more deeply, one that I’ve been trying not to feel.

“I arrived late,” Quin murmurs angrily. “Are you alright?”

I crouch and heave the Wyrd over. “Fine.”

“What are you doing? ”

“Staunching the blood before it leaves a suspicious puddle.”

Quin watches with the tightest jaw as I methodically sew up the torn wound on the Wyrd’s buttocks. “Rather leave him here to rot.”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Quin and I share a tight look. Quin uses the wind to thrust the incapacitated soldier behind the large sacks, and slides an arm around my waist. His gaze hits mine. We need to provide a reason for the soldiers not to come over. He has a way. Will I agree?

My breath hitches.

The footsteps grow louder. Someone mentions the hound.

I stare back at Quin, feeling his idea like a dangerous weight swinging between us.

My nerve endings leap at the glimpse of the first soldier’s shadow.

I throw my arms around Quin’s neck, drawing him to the sacks.

He drops his cane and leans against me, his tight long length a shield.

His face bows over mine and I arch my throat wantonly as I glance over his shoulder.

The first Wyrd has stopped abruptly. The others are still coming.

I sigh breathily and curl a leg around Quin, pushing him closer. He drags a nose up my ear. “Careful.”

I giggle and gasp and catch his eye.

The flash in them has me exploding in shivers.

There’s not so much as a hint of a smile.

His entire body thrums, taut with energy that sparks against mine.

And then... that uneven way his chest rises and falls, and the softest hitch in his throat.

.. This moment may be acted, but it’s also real.

I swallow hard.

He digs his nose into my hair and his breath shudders like he’s fighting something intoxicating. My leg loosens around his hip and he clasps my thigh to keep me there.

“Let’s give these two a moment, eh?” one of the Wyrds finally says, and the others laugh and sneak away, and I’m still locking Quin against me, my arms rigid, pulsing with my frantic heartbeat.

On a sharp breath, I come back to myself. My foot hits the ground and my arms shift to his chest and shove.

Quin rocks back onto his good leg and steadies his gaze on me.

“Your looks say too much, Quin.”

The Wyrd behind the sacks stirs; Quin grabs his cane and whacks him unconscious again with a scowl.

“So do your actions.”

We decide to move the Wyrd. Quin finds a flask at his hip, undoes the cap and splashes the sharp scent of alcohol over him.

I’m aware of the cold sweat forming at my nape.

Every footstep feels like it might betray us, the weight of the Wyrd growing greater by the second.

Quin’s uneven gait beside me is a constant reminder that he isn’t using enough magic to move painlessly.

We’re too obvious, we’ll be exposed. I glance around with a racing pulse and force my feet to keep moving forward .

Quin stops suddenly, resting heavily on his cane while his other arm remains determinedly around the Wyrd. I glance over and mouth. “Use more magic.”

He grimaces and keeps moving.

We slink past the commander’s tent, where officers have gathered demanding the commander come out and explain away the rumours amongst the generals.

The commander emerges like a shadow, stern and unyielding, holding a parchment. The officers are briefly quiet as he speaks, but there’s a restlessness around them. Suspicion, fear.

Quin’s grip on the Wyrd shifts, his gaze darting to mine, a silent nod. The Skeldar camp has made their move. We don’t stop walking. We’ll need to act swiftly: get Akilah and get out.

The commander’s gaze scrolls over the soldiers and us.

I stall and hurry on, and the commander shifts his attention to the Wyrds before him.

“This letter seemingly warns us that the Skeldar camp is riddled with poxies. It may equally be a scare tactic. Until such time as this is confirmed, you will maintain your order and that of your men.”

“If it’s true?” someone calls out.

“Ten strokes for speaking out of turn. Another ten for inciting panic.”

That officer is dragged away and we hear his howls even as far away as the training area.

In the healing tent, a healer spots us and rushes over, thankfully intercepted by Florentius. He takes over from Quin and we drag the man to a secluded area near the river, deposit him in the shadow of a tree.

Within moments, Florentius has used his magic to seamlessly heal the dog bite. So fast, so precise. The wound vanishes beneath his spell as if there’d never been damage at all. My stitches, the ones I pushed in with needle and thread, burn away in an instant.

I look away but I still feel the throb of my clenched teeth. I gesture to Quin leaning against the trunk, watching. “Heal Quin’s hairline cut properly while you’re at it,” I mutter irritably.

Florentius looks up; Quin touches the stitches I gave him.

“Leave it,” Quin says.

“It’ll scar.”

“Let it.”

My gaze flickers to the deep cut, but Quin’s silence cuts deeper.

His voice is low and firm. “Some things shouldn’t be forgotten.”

A hollow laugh trips out of me, but it’s nervous, too. “How could you ever forget this?”

His lips twist. “Call the scar a symbol, then. Of the repercussions of war. The importance of healers—”

“The consequences of us?”

His eyes darken as he throws back, “The meaning of responsibility.”

“The need to take a step back in order to move safely forward! ”

“The need to forge a path together.”

Florentius is looking between us with a crunched brow, a witness to our heated exchange. “Perhaps this lover’s quarrel can be put on hold?”

I throw up my useless hands. “We can never be lovers.”

Quin laughs darkly. “We’ve always been lovers.”

He says it like a fact, like it’s something I should know, something I should stop denying. It slams into me and I hiccup at the rawness it leaves behind. “You promised we wouldn’t talk about this.”

His gaze glitters, but there’s no humour in it. “You invited me to.”

The consequences of us .

I’d directed this conversation. I was the one burning to be clear. I was the one who wanted to hear...

I wrench my gaze guiltily away from his. At war, and I’m at war with myself.

Quin gives me space by refocusing the discussion. His voice is clear and decisive. “We need to take advantage of the soldiers’ unrest. Poxies in the camp will provide the distraction we need.” He looks at Florentius. “Panic will amplify the situation.”

As he continues to lay out the plan, I force my mind into formation, tamping down the conflict inside.