4. Marcus
CHAPTER FOUR
MARCUS
R esting against the knotty, uncomfortable roots of an olive tree, Marcus Scaevola pulls the hood of his cloak over his head and crosses his arms over his chest, feigning sleep.
Once they were far enough away from Nusquam, the three of them made camp behind an outcropping of tall, rough stones beside the Pelagus River.
Dru insisted on taking the first watch the moment she dismounted.
Marcus scored his face to hide his unease.
After riding hard for nearly half the night, shaken and visibly exhausted, anyone else wouldn’t have had legs to stand on.
He shouldn’t be surprised, though—Dru has always been stubborn.
Even when the Three passed down new edicts for the initiates to follow, she found a reason to rage against them.
No matter how often her trainers, himself included, punished her for it.
She went to great lengths to prove herself, whether or not she was right.
He’s glad that, at least, hasn’t changed from when he knew her.
Though it seems as if everything else has.
Dark spirits haunt her now, turning down her mouth and deadening the spark in her warm brown eyes, muting the gilded rings inside them.
He can guess the cause of it: having traveled the Imperium to carry out the unquestionable bidding of the Faithless, she doesn’t like what she’s seen. And he can’t blame her.
So, when she offered to stay awake, desperation clinging to her words, he couldn’t say no.
There are few things Marcus would deny her.
He glances over at the bard from the tabernae. Lying curled on the hard ground within arm’s reach, he cuddles his lute, snoring gently.
What I wouldn’t give to be so unburdened .
Every one of his instincts begged him not to take the bard. But, without coin, there’s no other way to get past the bridge into Anziano. And though, as Praetor, he can come and go as he pleases, that’s as far as his influence goes. The bard seems harmless enough, especially in sleep.
Dru, on the other hand, can’t sit still. And if she can’t find rest, he won’t be able to either.
When she finally stops fussing, he cracks open an eye.
He finds her leaning a hip and a shoulder against the thick trunk of the closest olive tree.
Having shucked her cloak and draped it over a low-hanging branch, only her cream-colored tunic remains, her figure a darkening silhouette against the pale moonlight.
The dagger she held to his throat remains sheathed, its belt low on her hips.
He smiles remembering it: her soft intake of breath when he pressed into her to hide them from the Phaedran soldiers, her features softening then hardening again once he pulled his hood back and she realized who he was.
Even her curious gaze on his cloaked form inside the tabernae made him feel things he hadn’t felt in a long time.
She’s even more beautiful than he remembers—more than she has any right to be.
His gaze lingers on her slender waist, swelling into a curved hip. Another change, but a kinder one. The Faithless purposefully starve their initiates for as long as they can, claiming it prepares them for going out into the world. But the truth of it is much simpler: control .
He watches Dru for a moment longer. Her braid loosens in its strap, her shoulders slumping the further her arms wrap around her stomach.
At first, he thinks she must be feeling ill.
But, opening his other eye, he sees the truth—she’s trembling.
She can’t be cold on such a temperate night, and she would’ve kept her cloak on if she were.
She’s crying.
Deodamnatus . His chest aches watching her, wishing he could go to her.
He shouldn’t have been so short with her earlier. But how else should he have reacted to her nearly throwing herself into the river?
In her previous life, she would’ve made light of it, brushed off his condemnation. Not bite back at him.
Truthfully, he didn’t anticipate not knowing Dru once he found her.
The Dru he helped train to become a Faithless soldier certainly carried a chip on her shoulder, but she worked hard, let loose now and then with her friends.
This Dru—wary and levelheaded, cold and deadly—is a stranger to him.
That became clear when she killed those two Namican archers with perfect precision and without remorse.
Exactly how the Faithless taught her. How he taught her.
But he shouldn’t have questioned her ability to make it to Anziano. After all she’s been through, Dru deserves better.
Despite the pain in his chest and an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms, to comfort her, he doesn’t move.
He has no words for what happened with Ovi, nothing he can do to comfort her.
And even if he did, he’s not sure it wouldn’t piss her off further.
She lost her closest friend—something you don’t get over in a single night.
The pain will silently stalk her for the rest of her life, long after she mourns.
Her reaction when she recognized him, though—the flicker of familiarity crossing her striking gaze, the parting of her full lips, the anger in the pinch of her smooth brow—made it clear that his comfort wouldn’t be welcome either.
He’s seen enough of the Imperium to recognize the jagged wound left behind by betrayal, to know when he’s not wanted and would only make things worse.
Ovi and Dru were thick as thieves in training camp.
Despite competing for the top initiate in their year, they became the best of friends.
Dru got the spot, of course—she couldn’t help being the best. But their friendship never faltered.
Even when Marcus gave Dru special attention without him realizing it.
Stellae, this must be gutting her.
He watches her shudder in silence for a while longer, until his stomach twinges again.
His traitorous feelings urge him to get up, to go to her, to do anything to stop the terrible shaking of her shoulders.
But he clamps his teeth and clenches his hands into fists, diverting his attention until eventually the shaking stops.
When she turns to wipe away her tears on her tunic sleeve, he forces his eyes shut and regulates his breathing. He’ll never gain her trust if she catches him watching her when she’s at her most vulnerable.
Despite the uncomfortable position against the olive tree, he eventually falls for his own ruse—his eyes open to Dru shaking his shoulders, the sky lightening around her.
Kneeling over him, the waves of her dark brown hair hang loose around her shoulders, the uneven ends flowing down past her chest. She clearly kept her word: puffy bruises underline her reddened eyes, and her grip on him is weaker than it should be.
Guilt wriggles in his stomach at not sharing the burden with her.
But at least the rest of the night appears to have been uneventful.
The tips of her fingers brush his neck as she gets to her feet, cracked lips parting. “Time to go. The sun rises in less than an hour.”
He nods, his hood falling back as he stands to stretch. His neck and back ache something fierce, and he groans. Nothing a day’s journey on a horse won’t fix .
He’s slept in worse positions and worse places, but knowing it doesn’t make waking up from them any easier.
Blinking away the bit of sleep he managed to get, Marcus brushes the dirt and dead leaves from his cloak before approaching the bard.
He’s dead asleep on his back with his mouth wide open, limbs sprawled in all different directions.
Marcus grunts, kicking the bard’s leg without giving him a warning. And he feels no remorse for it.
Cut off mid-snore, his eyes fly open and he flails on the ground, tossing dirt in the air. He scrambles to his feet, eyes manic. His rumpled tunic hangs off his shoulder, greasy blond hair askew as he points his lute at Marcus. Like he plans to use it as a weapon.
Marcus shakes his head. “Let’s go, bard.”
The bard blinks, recognition clearing the somnolent haze from his bloodshot, hazel-green eyes. Lowering his lute, he swings it back across his shoulder.
“You don’t have to be so rough, at least not until we get to know each other better.” Posture loose again, he rubs at his eyes and runs his tongue along his teeth, clearing his throat. “And it’s Jove, not bard.”
Marcus fights against rolling his eyes. “No.”
He pauses, sweeping the dirt from his backside. “No to not being rough, or no to my name?”
Marcus grimaces. “Both.”
While the bard mutters something about coin not being enough to buy even a little common decency these days, Marcus heads over to Dru and the horses.
She doesn’t appear to notice him as he comes up beside her. With her thick locks tamed once more in a loose braid, he watches her scarred fingers brush softly along the beast’s back, repeating the phrase he used in the stables. Straightening, an odd sense of pride fills his chest, warming him.
“Ready?” he asks, voice rough from sleep.
She doesn’t flinch, refusing to acknowledge his question beyond, “Help me up.”
He gets down on one knee without question, allowing Dru to push off his bare thigh with the bottom of her sandal so she can swing her other leg over with ease. It takes effort to look away as she does so.
Approaching his own horse, he clicks the inside of his cheek to get the horse’s attention, then lowers his hand with his palm down, slowly kneeling.
The horse’s front legs bend, then his back, until he’s flush to the ground.
Marcus gets to his feet and mounts the horse easily, catching Dru staring at him intently a moment before she turns away. A smile threatens to tug at his lips.
Gripping the horse’s reins, he regards their unwelcome companion. “Come on, bard, either get on or be left behind.”