Page 10 of The Warlord’s Princess (Warlords of Tempest #3)

RAMSEY

Weak Asha is still asleep when I rouse, wrapped in one of her weaves, her hands placed under her cheek.

Her scent is everywhere, needling my growing anger, for I should not have to deal with such an aroma.

It makes me lose myself.

In Tempest, it would be grievous for a woman to sleep as she is when a man slept on a bed, but she is not of Tempest.

Haelden and Brock are already at The Tomb when I enter, scanning over the map Jacek has on the center screen.

I point to where the Veriskans were, which is about a seven-day walk from the village.

“There were only two, but I worry they have since brought more.”

Brock scratches his chin. “It seems curious that Amber was able to walk out all that way.”

Not wanting to discuss my failed courtship, I say, “I was letting her glimpse the island for what it was, hoping she would see her folly and grow more compliant.”

Haelden shakes his head in annoyance. “That is not the way of Amber.”

I snort out a laugh. “It is not.”

As we are about to leave The Tomb to make our way to the outer territory, Brock pulls me aside and speaks to me in a hushed tone.

“I was wondering how your cohabitation with Asha was going.”

“Terribly.”

He gives a slow nod.

Something twists in my gut. “Why do you ask?”

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I notice she does not get as much attention as the others,” and walks off.

Could it be that he is enamored with the weak Penticari woman? Not too long ago, he was loudly complaining about the Penticari, and now he asks about the Little Vaeyark with curiosity I mislike.

Brock’s interest in Asha should not bother me.

Yes, for some inexplicable reason, it does.

A lot.

Letting his words hang, I walk past him, “Let us hurry,” letting my anger fuel me.

I have long wondered what makes some Tempest men prone to falling for the weak Penticari, and more than once I attributed it up to ‘barrack blood’, but admittedly, I had little reason to believe that.

It was my pride that demanded I believe that, as it was barracks men that obliged my princess when I could not.

We meet with Grixis and Eddard and walk out to the edge of our village.

“Do not let yourself be known and return in a fortnight,” Grixis instructs.

“Worry not.” Haelden puffs his chest out with pride. “We will bring honor to Tempest.”

Brock says nothing.

I watch them set out with envy roiling my gut because they have true purpose.

With the bruntler we took down, we will not need a hunting party for a few days, leaving me to work around the village.

What have I done to deserve such torture?

I press my eyes closed and see her, her cheeks tinted purple, her silver eyes boring into mine, conveying her lust.

How could any of these weak women hope to compete with my Kasmina, a Great Princess of Tempest?

It is understandable why the other men would be enamored by them, being of lower blood.

But I have known the exquisite beauty of a most high princess, and nothing could hope to compete.

Yet, oddly, thinking of her now is not the same as it once was. My stomach no longer fills with butterflies, and the guilt I once had no longer needles me.

Instead of remorse, I feel bitter—angry even.

Which is nonsensical, because I have no one to blame for my exile but myself.

I close my eyes again, but instead of seeing the princess, I see Asha’s gold-spun hair and big blue eyes that are the same color as my flesh.

Her heart is racing—she is terrified.

And yet she does not back away.

Her scent invades my nostrils, and I almost groan.

I have truly lost myself.

When Brock and Haelden have disappeared, I turn to Grixis, lip sneered. “I do not understand why I must stay behind. I am the one who discovered their scouting. It should be me who is sent to find them.”

He places a hand on my shoulder. “Your eagerness is commendable, but you are needed in the village.”

“You seek to dishonor me!” I snarl.

“I do no such thing.”

“You force me to share my home with the weakest of the Penticari, and when there is reason for me to leave, you deny it to me.”

His eyes flicker with irritation, and I almost feel bad, because I know the weight of the burden he now carries.

Without another word, we head back to The Tomb.

“How is the terraformer performing?” Grixis asks Jacek.

Jacek turns, leaning back in his seat. “Since it was fixed, it has run smoothly, though the ribbons are coming out more frequently.”

Grixis frowns, asking, “What is the trajectory?”

“We have a one-hundred-ten percent increased output since Asha fixed the terraformer, putting us two years ahead of schedule.”

Two years ahead of schedule?

It may not seem like a long time, but the signal to Tempest gets sent years in advance, and if Tempest is pleased with our progress, they may send out settlers.

It is possible that with gaining two years, they could come in as little as ten.

I look over, seeing Grixis’s silver eyes panicked. “That seems too much,”

“The terraformer had not been working optimally for some time, so our trajectory was off.”

Grixis bows his head. “We must start readying the caves.”

“But with their heat, they are all but unbearable to us,” I remind him.

“Unbearable to us means we are still alive,” Grixis says tersely. “Besides, we do not have to move in right away. This just ensures we are prepared when the time finally comes.”

Annoyance prickles me.

We have drawn closer to restoring our honor, yet all our chieftain cares about is those weak Penticari things, and most of all, Elena.

He has lost himself to madness.

“Perhaps we can build around it, resettling at the mouth,” Jacek adds.

Instead of arguing with them, I storm from The Tomb, willing my head to clear.

Yet my head remains muddled with thoughts of weak Asha.

Why did I share my exile with her? It is something I do not speak to my tribe about, so why her?

And how could it be that we share such history? Such dishonor? It seems unfathomable, yet I do not believe she lies.

My mind should not linger on lesser thoughts, lesser people, yet I find myself wondering about her life.

By her own admission, her mother was chosen for beauty and not strength. That beauty must have been passed down, as her features are agreeable when compared to the other maidens, and if she were not so weak, she could easily beguile many and more of the men.

A low growl rumbles in my chest at the thought of it, and my anger grows, for who am I to desire someone so weak?

Surely, I do not. It is her scent that confuses me. It is strong, more so than any of us are used to, as Tempest women smell only slightly.

I should hunt. With the Penticari now residing with us, we will go through food quicker, which could prove disastrous for us during the coming cold season, when food gets scarce.

Caen would probably welcome the distraction, as he loathes what the village has become, yet I cannot bring myself to seek him out.

Instead, I find myself walking toward my hut, where the Little Vaeyark is nesting in her weaves.