Page 16 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

Wren

‘Desire can alter the mind as deeply as any poison’

– The Poisoner’s Handbook

O NCE AGAIN , W REN found herself alone on the road with the Warsword who’d shattered her heart.

To make matters worse, a violent storm had rolled in, and try as she might, Wren couldn’t bring it to heel.

She blamed him for that as well. There was no controlling the thick clouds swallowing up the sky, or the downpour of rain assaulting them.

‘What’s wrong with your magic?’ Torj demanded from where he sat soaked in his saddle. The road had turned to a muddy river beneath their horses’ hooves, and there was no reprieve in sight.

‘Nothing,’ Wren snapped.

‘Then why can’t you stop this?’ he pressed.

‘Perhaps I like seeing you suffer.’

Torj barked a laugh. ‘Perhaps, but I can hear your teeth chattering from here. You’re not exactly enjoying the monsoon.’

Wren clenched her jaw and tried to ignore him. She knew that everyone saw her as the most controlled Embervale sister, the most disciplined when it came to her storm magic... but here she was, drenched to the bone and shivering, unable to bend the storm to her will, unable to call it off.

‘Seriously, Embervale,’ Torj called over the roar of the rain. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘It’s my business if something you once used for defence is no longer reliable.’

Wren urged her mare to quicken their pace. But after another hour of riding in the torrential deluge, her body aching from shivering so hard, she was relieved when Torj pointed to a dense copse of trees on the crest of a hill up ahead.

‘We should take shelter there. The ground is high enough that I could pitch my tent. Keep a steady pace, though – we don’t want to trigger a landslide.’

For once, Wren didn’t argue.

The sky erupted with another deafening crack of thunder. She flinched. The storms had always been like kin to her, and now she was a stranger amid their chaos. Rain lashed down in angry sheets, stinging her exposed skin and plastering her clothes to her body.

Her mare gave a cry of distress, and Wren leaned forwards, stroking the horse’s neck. ‘Easy, girl,’ she murmured, though her own heart raced.

Beside her, Torj’s broad shoulders were hunched against the deluge, and Wren winced at the impact the rain must be having on his fresh wounds. His stallion plodded on stoically, head lowered against the wind.

They started the ascent to the hilltop, and Wren cast aside her concern at her lack of power and simply focused on controlling her skittish mount as best she could.

Together, Warsword and poisoner urged the horses up the muddy incline, their hooves slipping on the sodden grass.

As they reached the shelter of the trees, they guided their mounts to a halt.

The canopy above provided some relief, but rain still found its way through, and Wren wondered whether she’d ever feel her toes again.

Torj swung down from his saddle with a grimace, the motion clearly pulling at his bandaged back. He moved around his stallion to help Wren dismount.

She eyed the puddles of water and muddy tracks on the ground, assessing the likelihood of landing on her arse.

She hesitated a moment longer before accepting his outstretched hand.

His fingers were cold, just as hers were, but familiar, strong.

As she swung her leg over the saddle, her boot got caught in the stirrup, causing her to flail—

‘I’ve got you,’ Torj murmured in her ear, catching her against his chest. He had spoken those words to her before, and they had the same effect on her now.

Despite everything he had done to hurt her, Wren’s heartbeat quickened, and the urge to push her fingers through his wet hair and drag his mouth to hers overwhelmed her.

For a second, she froze, staring up at him while his strong arms steadied her.

Her palms rested against his rain-soaked shirt, feeling his heart pound beneath the material.

Then, as if burned, they both pulled away, Wren turning her back to him so she could compose herself.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, looping her mare’s reins around a low-hanging branch.

Torj was already moving to his saddlebags. He pulled out a rolled-up tent, the canvas heavy with water.

Wren tried to make herself useful, scouting for the highest, flattest patch of land. ‘Here looks good,’ she called.

Surveying the spot, the Bear Slayer nodded. ‘It’ll have to do.’ He passed her a corner of canvas. ‘Here. Lay this out.’

Their boots squelched in the mud as they worked together to spread out the canvas, careful not to touch one another again.

Torj used his war hammer to nail the pegs into the wet earth, while Wren threaded the poles through their respective loops. ‘Do you think it’ll hold?’ she asked over the downpour.

‘Once we’re inside it should be fine,’ Torj told her. ‘Hold this corner for me.’ He handed Wren a stake for the ground, their fingers grazing for a moment, sending an electrical current through Wren that made the storm above shudder.

Together, they wrestled with the tent in the howling wind. Wren couldn’t stop her gaze from lingering on the Warsword’s strong hands working over the ropes, securing them in place, his shirt completely plastered to his muscular torso.

‘You alright?’ he asked, wiping the rain from his eyes, spotting her labouring over a particularly stubborn knot in her own rope.

‘I—’

But Torj was already moving behind her, reaching around to guide her hands. ‘Like this.’

His breath was warm against her ear, and Wren felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

As the last peg was driven into the sodden earth, Torj motioned to the entrance of the tent. ‘Get inside.’

Wren reached for the flap, but paused on the threshold. ‘You’re not coming in?’

‘It’s a two-man tent.’

‘And we are two people.’

A flush crept up the Bear Slayer’s neck. ‘Uh...’

‘You’re really going to quibble over logistics in this?’ Wren motioned to the relentless skies. ‘Don’t be an idiot. You’ll catch your death.’ She ducked under the flap and crawled into the shelter.

It was only when she was inside, with the sudden absence of wind and rain allowing her to think, that she realized what the Bear Slayer had been objecting to. It may have been a two-man tent, but the Warsword was bigger than the average man. Much bigger—

A pack was thrown in after her.

‘There should be a dry blanket in there.’ The Warsword’s voice drifted inside, and then the warrior himself climbed through the tent entrance.

The small space felt so much more confined with Torj’s huge frame inside, their shoulders already brushing as he fumbled with a small lantern, at last managing to light it and hang it from one of the poles across the top.

They both took a breath, and suddenly, Wren became all too aware of how her drenched gown clung to her skin. Her nipples were hard and sensitive against the rough fabric, and the way Torj was pointedly staring at the tent wall told her that he’d noticed the same thing.

Think of your opus , she told herself. The clock is ticking. You need to find the silvertide rose and recreate the cure, not get caught up in him again.

Wren steeled herself. ‘We need to get out of these wet clothes,’ she said, almost expecting him to protest.

Torj’s voice was low and husky. ‘I know.’

Wren’s cheeks flamed. The thought of undressing in front of him... She was immediately brought back to their time in the meadow, where he’d sheathed himself inside her, where she’d come undone around his cock, pleasure rippling through her to the point of madness.

‘I’ll turn around,’ Torj told her, shuffling on his knees, presenting his back to her.

Wren could see the muscles bunching beneath his translucent shirt.

For a moment, she simply stared, willing herself not to trace the corded sinew there.

Then she remembered his burns, and worry speared through her – a practical concern; nothing more.

As though he could feel her eyes boring into him, Torj shifted. ‘Embervale?’

‘Don’t look,’ she warned him, her trembling fingers reaching for the ties of her apron.

She wasn’t sure if it was the cold or something else that had her shaking.

Wincing as the icy air hit her wet skin, Wren began to peel off her soaked garments, hanging them as best she could from the poles within the tent.

The sound of drenched fabric slapping against her as she wrangled it off seemed unnaturally loud in the confined space, and it was all the more heightened by Torj’s presence.

When she’d removed the top half of her apron and gown, her fingers struggled with the laces at the back of her skirts. Cursing, she pulled at them, only to find the wet knots tighter than before.

‘Everything alright?’ Torj asked quietly.

Wren let out a cry of frustration. ‘No.’ Her hands crept up to cover her breasts. ‘I need your help with the laces...’

She heard his sharp inhale, and the sound of wet material rustling as he turned around. With her back to him, she couldn’t see his expression, but she felt his warm breath ghost over her bare skin, his gentle fingers settling at the small of her back where the troublesome laces held her captive.

Only when she felt the tug of the fabric did she realize that Torj’s fingers were trembling too.

Every time they grazed her skin, she had to stop herself from arching into his touch, a touch she knew could set her alight.

Every time his breath whispered along her spine, the ache between her legs intensified, her breasts growing heavy in her hands.

Wren had to bite her lip to keep a whimper contained.

Cold air kissed the base of her spine.

‘There,’ Torj said gruffly, turning his back to her once more.

Her voice was raw. ‘Thank you.’ She made quick work of removing her skirts, knowing they had little chance of drying by morning, but hanging them up anyway.

As fast as she could, she slipped beneath the dry blanket and rolled onto her side, facing the wall, wincing at the cold seeping through the groundsheet.

‘Your turn,’ she told the Warsword.

The whole tent seemed to rock as Torj went about removing his soaked clothes, and Wren stared resolutely at the faded canvas, unable to stop her mind from wandering to the vivid picture the rustle of fabric painted for her.

Wren sucked in a breath as the blanket lifted and the Bear Slayer slid under it as well, careful not to touch her. But he didn’t need to touch her to send that current of lightning rushing through her – the fact that he was mere inches away, completely nude, did that just fine.

Still shivering, she couldn’t stop herself. She rolled to her other side to face him, holding the blanket high under her chin. His hair was messy, his cheeks flushed – with cold or exertion, she didn’t know.

Devastating. That was how he looked, roughed up by the storm and naked beneath the blanket they shared. It was enough to make her heart quicken and fuel the pulse of need between her thighs.

‘You’re shaking like a leaf,’ he observed as she bit her lower lip.

‘Whoever said Warswords don’t catch on quick?’ she replied. Then, feeling bold, she added, ‘We’d be warmer if we were closer...’

‘I don’t want that.’

‘Fine. Then we’ll freeze to death.’

‘Embervale, I...’ He trailed off.

‘If you’re happy chattering so hard you break a tooth, then so be it,’ she snapped, unsure why she was arguing, why she was putting herself in this position. ‘But for what it’s worth, it wouldn’t mean anything.’

The Bear Slayer muttered something to the Furies under his breath, before tilting his face to the roof. ‘Fuck it.’

Solid arms enveloped her, drawing her flush against his naked form. A moan nearly slipped from her, and her hand brushed—

He was rock hard beneath the blanket, and hot, deliciously hot to the touch.

‘According to your body, there’s something here you very much want, Bear Slayer,’ she teased, though it took all her willpower to draw her hand away.

Torj’s grip tightened around her, almost crushing her to him. ‘I’m a mortal, aren’t I? No man could look at you without yearning for what doesn’t belong to him...’

Despite the slickness that had gathered at her core, despite the primal need to rake her fingers down his body, the words were like a fine cut to the heart, and Wren had to swallow down the words, I did belong to you, once.