Chapter Fifty-Six
“Princess?” The urgent voice is low, familiar.
Wrong.
My vision blurs even as unwanted desire coils inside me. I grip his shoulders tighter.
“Where’s Daak?” the voice asks.
His words snap me out of my haze, and I focus on the man before me with the intimately familiar blue eyes.
Sorka.
Daak’s father.
My heart splinters.
I clutch his shoulders, slumping into him. He looks me over, not as a general assessing his soldier, but with the tenderness of a concerned father. His eyes widen as he notes my flushed cheeks. My torn tunic.
“Princess.” His voice is grave. “What happened to you?”
“The Dark Commander is chasing me,” I pant, clutching the shredded fabric of my tunic together. “Do you have more men?”
Sorka straightens, face drawn. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he eyes my ripped tunic again. “Yes. Our camp is nearby. Come, quickly.”
I follow him through the woods, struggling to ignore the heat in my belly or the way my eyes linger on the contracting muscles in Sorka’s back, the curl of gray-streaked hair against the nape of his neck.
“How many men does he have?” Sorka asks, slicing through wayward branches with his longsword.
“None.”
“None?”
“He, uh, killed them.”
The general shoots me a confused look over his shoulder. My eyes trace his full, parted lips and the white stubble covering his strong jaw.
Tides, I need to get a hold of myself.
This is Daak’s father. And I haven’t even told him Daak is dead.
A broken, hysterical laugh bubbles from my lips.
Sorka’s strong brows knit with concern. “You’re safe, Princess,” he soothes. “He can’t harm you now.”
We dart through the trees for another few minutes when Sorka stops. He raises a hand in the air and snaps his fingers.
A dozen warriors emerge from the underbrush.
They’re clad in the dark browns and greens of the forest, but their eyes are unmistakably Tundrayani—icy, clear, shimmering, deep, blue.
Unbidden, my heated gaze drinks them in.
Braided hair, sharp jawlines, scarred brows.
Shifting muscle, corded veins, curious eyes.
I avert my gaze with a startled gasp. Tides ravage me.
“Stoat maneuver,” Daak’s father calls. “Quickly.”
The men disappear into the underbrush like wraiths.
Sorka turns to me. “He’s after you?” I nod stiffly. “Stand in the middle here. Do not be afraid, Princess. We won’t let him touch you.”
But can they keep me from touching him?
I hope so.
Sorka vanishes into the forest, too. I swallow hard, facing the dark woods. My heart hammers frantically in my chest, my skin burning up. Ghosts of rough, calloused hands glide over me. How would their long braids feel dragged against my skin?
My skin prickles, every nerve alert.
Minutes later, and there—he strides through the trees.
Every thought evaporates from my mind. My body thrums with need, all interest in the Tundrayni warriors swept away by the violent tide that is my husband.
He sees me. His fingers flex, as if resisting the urge to reach for me.
His full lips curve into a sensuous smirk. My heart stutters.
Why was I running from him again?
His stride slows as he nears, molten steel eyes fixed on my face.
I take a step toward him.
Then, another.
And another.
Before I know it, I’m bolting through the trees in a desperate bid to reach him.
I need to reach him.
But I never do.
A low clinking rattle is the only warning before an iron chain whips through the air, slinging around Zev’s neck.
His hand flies up, two fingers wedging beneath the chain just before it tightens into a noose.
Six men leap out from behind trees. Two grab Zev’s arms while the other four anchor his legs.
My husband doesn’t even try to fight.
Thick iron cuffs, three times the width he’d suppressed me with, shackle his wrists with resounding clicks.
But he keeps his eyes on me. The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. Almost like he thinks this is a joke. Like I’m a joke.
I have to force my feet to stay rooted to the ground. Beads of sweat dot my forehead, and my heart pummels my ribcage as if it means to escape.
“The Dark Commander himself,” Sorka drawls, coming to stand beside me. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought about this day.”
Zev’s grin is razor sharp. “I haven’t thought about you at all. You are?”
Daak’s father scowls. “Sorka. General of the Tundrayni army.”
“Ah. Then, it’s my honor. I’d bow but”—he shrugs, or tries to—“I can’t move.” His hard gaze cuts to me. “Are you feeling all right, wife? You look a little … flushed.”
My hands are clenched into tight fists, breath stuttering.
Sorka shoots me an inquisitive glance. “Princess?”
I swallow hard. “I—I need a tent. Alone. He … he channeled his power into me. A lot of it.”
Sorka’s mouth drops open, then snaps shut as he connects the dots—my torn tunic, the channeled power—and arrives at the wrong conclusion. His cold blue gaze flits to Zev. “Tidesdamned bastard,” he spits, face twisted with fury.
Some of the warriors look confused, while others won’t look at me at all.
“String him up in camp,” Sorka orders before turning to me. “Let’s find you a tent.”
Fifteen minutes later, my body is on fire.
I can’t think. I can’t focus.
I just need.
My thighs press together as the warriors secure Zev to two large posts set into a raised rectangular platform—thick iron chains nailed into wooden posts lock his wrists, a heavy iron collar fastened around his neck.
Two warriors take their places in front of the posts, standing vigil against the storm that is the Dark Commander.
Zev doesn’t take his eyes off me.
He knows I’m burning—aching for him.
“Princess,” Sorka says, urgency lacing his voice.
There’s a young woman beside him, with large doe-like eyes and a thick braid slung over her shoulder.
I’d guess she’s probably around my age. “That one”—he gestures to a small tent—“is yours. Vykiss will stay with you. I’ve assigned two guards to stand watch. ”
“Eight guards,” Zev calls out. He smirks at me, cruel and sharp. “I’ve seen you feral, wife. Two men won’t stop you from getting your hands on me.” He levels Sorka with a cool glare. “And if I get loose? This entire camp won’t stop me from getting my hands on her.”
Zev’s face snaps to the side as one of the warriors backhands him. Spit and blood fly through the air, but Zev just grins, his teeth painted a gruesome red. His chest rises and falls too fast, but his mouth never stops smirking.
Sorka mutters a low string of curses.
But when he runs out of ways to malign Zev’s parentage, he assigns eight guards to my tent.
Heat curls through my veins like thick tendrils of smoke. It permeates my lungs with hazy desire, blankets my senses with a fog of pure need. I take a deep breath and inhale phantom smoke and pine.
My eyes are locked on Zev’s—he’s chained up. I just need to wait for the camp to settle in for the night, for the guards to change shifts. He’d be willing. I’m pretty sure. I could—
“Princess,” a soft voice murmurs, jolting me out of my indecent, immoral spiral. It’s Vykiss. “Come. It’ll be getting worse soon. Let’s get you inside.” She rests a gentle hand on my shoulder and guides me into the tent.
“Vykiss. Listen,” I pant, shrugging off my torn tunic, leaving just the white bindings that cover my chest. A fine sheen of sweat coats my skin. The need is unbearable. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’ll do. There’s no dignity left in me.
Just need. Just hunger.
And it belongs to him.
“Bring me valerian root.”