Chapter Fifteen
Iwake alone the next morning. A cold wave of disappointment rushes through me—I thought he might’ve stayed. I don’t know why I expected things to be different between us after last night.
What could possibly be different?
He’d still be the son of my mother’s murderer.
And I’d still be betrothed to his brother.
It’s easier this way. It’s better this way.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll eventually believe it.
I flop onto my back right as Zevayr emerges through the trees.
“Rise and shine, Mayah.” He’s shaved his face, his jaw and neck smooth. The sight sends a rush of heat coiling through me. I suck my lower lip into my mouth. What would his smooth skin feel like against my cheek? My neck? My—
Tides, what is wrong with me? My face flushes, and I roll onto my stomach before he sees the damning redness.
“I’m still tired,” I say, hiding my face in the blanket. It’s not a lie—I am tired. And my legs ache. I’ll use my powers to soothe them after breakfast.
Zevayr walks over, his steps halting beside my head. Awareness ripples through my body, leaving me trembling, yet I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze.
“Ten more minutes, baby,” he rumbles. I flush harder, burrowing my face deeper into the blanket. “Then we go.”
“Don’t call me baby.”
It’s late afternoon when it happens.
One minute, we’re walking through the trees, and in the next, Zevayr has me pinned against a thick trunk, large hand clamped over my mouth.
The air rushes from my lungs. Tides, the man is pure muscle, and every hard inch of him is melded against me.
Warmth floods my body, heating my cheeks and scorching my veins before pooling in my core.
My chest heaves against his, and I almost whimper at the delicious friction.
Except Zevayr isn’t looking at me.
I frown—or I try to, with his hand pressed to my lips—but his focus is on the surrounding trees.
And then—a sound stirs the silence.
Faint footsteps.
“Stay here,” he whispers. “Nod so I know you’ll listen.”
He doesn’t remove his hand.
I nod, lips skimming his calloused palm.
He vanishes in a heartbeat, swallowed by the trees. Then—there. I catch sight of him in the underbrush. A crouching shadow beneath the thicket, a waiting predator.
We don’t wait long.
Six men emerge into the clearing. They’re dressed for battle—dark leather and sheathed swords.
Rebels.
“—believe she did that?” one of the men cackles. “I thought the poor man would faint.”
“Mona’s a firecracker,” another man agrees, slapping his portly companion on the back. The other men chuckle in agreement.
They march past Zevayr.
Maybe they’ll keep going. Maybe they won’t see us at all.
Step after step, the men move on, and I exhale a relieved sigh. Still, I don’t so much as twitch. They’re almost gone when—
A sharp whistle echoes through the clearing.
Once, twice, and then a third, long note.
The rebels halt in their tracks.
“Would you look at that, boys?” the portly man announces. “Some sneaky bastards are hiding.”
Before even a whisper of fear can breathe down my spine, Zevayr thunders toward them, sword poised to deliver death. The men fumble for their weapons, but he’s faster—one man drops lifeless before steel even clears their scabbards, a dagger jutting from his neck.
The clash of metal echoes through the trees. Zevayr is a violent storm, his sword a flash of lightning as he blocks and parries before delivering death blows.
Another man falls to the ground.
Four left.
Realization jolts through me—five men left.
Whoever whistled—whoever alerted the rebels—must be above us, somewhere with a clear view. I creep forward on silent steps, scanning the trees. Nothing stirs. Only a sea of leafy branches, concealing more than they reveal.
A sharp grunt of pain jerks my gaze back to the fight. Not Zevayr—thank the Tides. Another man lies dead at his feet. He could end this in an instant, call down lightning and kill them all, but he holds back. He must not want to draw more attention.
Satisfied that Zevayr is holding his own, my gaze sweeps back to the trees. Minutes drag by before I spot him—the rebel tucked into the branches, his green and brown garb melting into the foliage.
My breath catches—he has a crossbow leveled at Zevayr.
And Zevayr doesn’t see him.
My legs move, unbidden.
A distant click, a sharp twang.
Whistling death, hurtling right for him.
“Zevayr!” I shout, bolting through the underbrush. He freezes, eyes wide as they land on me. The rebels swivel their heads. One of them pivots, heading my way and—
It happens so fast.
The arrow finds its mark. Searing pain erupts in my side.
A burning punch to my ribs.
A flash of heat. Then cold.
My breath shudders out of me as I crumple to the ground.
The color drains from Zevayr’s face, his gray eyes panicked. I blink, and he’s the Dark Commander, his expression contorted with violent wrath.
He roars, and the sky rumbles in response. The man closest to him has no chance as Zevayr shoves his sword clean through him.
I don’t understand what happens next. I thought he’d summon lightning and incinerate them.
He doesn’t—but the men die anyway.
The air crackles.
One by one, the men vibrate, pained, garbled groans escaping stuttering mouths. The stench of smoke and metal wafts through the air, and the sizzling grows louder.
Their bodies jerk unnaturally, like puppets with snapping strings.
One man falls to the ground, dead.
The others follow.
There’s a loud thud—the sharpshooter falls, too, his body crashing to the ground.
I try to breathe, but my lungs won’t obey. Zevayr’s face, feral with rage, blurs out of focus before the darkness swallows me whole.