Page 5 of The Warlord’s Princess (Warlords of Tempest #3)

He could be lying to demoralize me, but Ramsey doesn’t strike me as the type that would do that. Besides, he could easily find ten other things lacking in me to bring to my attention, so why would he make something up?

“I could bathe again.”

“That will not help.”

“Then tell me, what will?”

His hands clench again, and he exhales a long breath.

I go over the numbers in my head. There are eighteen left of us, twelve still need blankets, and each takes roughly three days of uninterrupted weaving. But I have to add time to dye the fabric, and clothes…plus Grixis’s gift.

“A hundred days,” I finally tell him, though I could be off by as many as thirty.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’ll take me at least a hundred days to finish my weaves.”

“That is more than excessive.”

“It’s not a straightforward process. I have to dye the thread. Then, I must arrange all the tools to get the weave started. There are eighteen of?—”

“Enough.”

Without another word, he lies back on the bed, slinging one arm over his face, his elbow between his eyes, covering them.

How is it possible that his quiet rage is worse than his yelling?

I can’t help but wonder if he was always like this or if it was his exile from Tempest that soured him.

And how does a man as honor-bound as he get exiled? I don’t see him doing anything to shuck his honor, which means he was probably defeated in combat.

Not that I would know much about Tempest customs to say if that’s true, and I don’t think he’d appreciate me asking.

After making significant progress on a new weave to calm my nerves, I go back to the damaged one, undoing the parts that need to be rewoven.

It’s easy to get lost in my work, because it reminds me of what I left behind. Not Penticar, but before that. Years before that.

“Tighten your weave,” my mother would say. My small fingers struggled to get it right, but I’d taken her advice to heart over the years, improving my skills to be equal to those who’ve mastered the craft.

I wish she could see my weaves. How far I’ve come.

But the dead see nothing.

It’s dark when I finally set my work down. I massage my hands, stretching my fingers to ease the aches.

A flicker captures my attention. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Ramsey’s silver eyes.

He’s staring at me.

I swallow a knot in my throat, wondering if I should say something. Would it make me appear strong? Or would he mistake my nervous chatter for fear?

I open my mouth to apologize for the situation he’s been put in, suddenly remembering that the Tempest men think apologies are weak.

I settle on saying, “Thank you for bringing Amber back,” thinking he can’t possibly take offense at that.

“I would think one such as you would not have wanted her back.”

“And why would you think that?”

“She makes you small to make herself big.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“Does that not make you mad?”

I consider his words before replying. “It’s not that it doesn’t make me mad, but arguing with her or about her isn’t worth it.”

“Your honor is not worth it?” He turns, and the moonlight coming in from the window illuminates his muscled torso.

I don’t remember him taking off his shirt, and for one terrifying moment, I wonder if he’s also slipped out of his pants.

I feel an unexpected rush sweep through me, and my cheeks flush with worry that he can somehow sense the effect he’s having on me.

Which is unusual, to say the least.

Focus, Asha—he’s waiting for an answer…

“To me, honor isn’t about how other people perceive you,” I manage to say.

He snickers. “Is your honor so low that you would redefine it?”

“No, but basing it on perception is a lie conjured by the prideful.”

“Then tell me, weak Asha, how would you define honor?”

“How dutiful you are, that you do what needs to be done, no matter how big or small it is, and whether you do right by those in your charge.”

Instead of arguing with me as I expect him to do, he rolls onto his back, his silver orbs disappearing.

He turns nearly black without the moonlight, but his presence has never felt larger.

I should sleep, if that’s even possible with him present.

I pull off my outer layer of clothes, leaving me in a thin shift.

Ramsey gives an angry grunt, and I remember that he’d said I smelt bad.

Seeing as how I’d bathed earlier in the day and I haven’t worked up a sweat, there’s little that can be done about my odor, save wrapping myself in as many layers as possible, which sounds miserable considering the temperatures outside.

Not to mention that catering to Ramsey could make me appear weak.

Perhaps if I’m smelly, he’ll be compelled to spend time out of the hut, and I can weave in silence.

One can hope.

With Ramsey on the bed, I ball my outer layer of clothes, making it into a pillow, then stretch out on the floor, pulling one of the finished weaves over me.

Without making a sound, Harold scurries next to me, burying himself in my hair.

I give him a small pat before drifting off to sleep, to a warmth I haven’t known in years and a smile that was only meant for me.