Chapter 15 – Rowan
ROWAN
It’s dark and cold in the tent belonging to Captain Rusic.
With my back pressed hard against the wooden pole and my hands bound behind it, I shift in a futile effort to ease the ache in my shoulders.
I test the restraints again, twisting my wrists until the iron bites into my skin.
There has to be a weakness, some way out.
But the cuffs remain stubbornly secure, my wrists bleeding and raw from my efforts.
Everything hurts.
At least the physical pain keeps my mind off the deep chasm of emptiness in my chest, one that threatens to swallow me whole the second I acknowledge its existence.
I fought like hell when they dragged me here. And though I lost the fight, it took four of Kovaria’s finest to remove me from the prince’s tent and deposit me into this one. I can only hope I left more bruises and cuts than I took.
Oh, how I wanted to smack that godsdamned smirk off Theo’s face as he watched them drag me away. Amusement danced in his eyes while his advisors exchanged nervous glances, clearly rattled by the prince’s decision to keep me alive.
“Ayer will do himself a favor by putting this one down—quickly,” one of the Kovari soldiers said after they’d managed to wrestle me to the pole. After I bit his friend hard enough to draw blood, he shoved a dirty scrap of cloth into my mouth and tied it behind my head.
The one I bit eyed me warily. “Feral, that one.”
And then they left.
That was hours ago. Hours and hours I spent struggling against the unforgiving iron binding my wrists, and trying to spit out the gag, to no avail. All the adrenaline and fight I’d summoned has long since ebbed away. Exhaustion and pain took its place.
The tent has darkened with the setting sun, making it nearly impossible to see.
Two small candles flickering all the way across the tent are the only source of light within the space—the only light breaking up the shadow.
They emit just enough light to illuminate a dark desk covered in documents and maps of various sizes.
It stands opposite a small washbasin, with a small table and chairs nearby.
The captain must be a big deal to not only have his own personal quarters, but so many amenities as well. Admittedly, I haven’t really gotten a good look at him, but he hardly looks old enough to have earned the title.
I stare forlornly at the cold, dark, fire pit near the center of the tent. The teeth-chattering chill in my bones can attest to the fact that the Kovari soldiers purposely didn’t bother lighting it before they left.
They tied me to the wooden post—one of the ones holding up the tent—which had been hammered deep into the earth, making it more than secure. The post stands conveniently to the left of a large pallet of soft furs and blankets.
His bed.
Not for the first time tonight, my mind goes to just how bad things could get for me when the captain finally returns. What Theo alluded to… I choke back the rising vomit.
But so far, the captain hasn’t shown himself. And after spending hours unsuccessfully trying to wriggle free of my restraints, I’d crumpled to the ground, tired and defeated… with nothing to do but wait.
Shouts from outside the tent send my knees to my chest—the only protection I have—watching the opening of the tent like a hawk for any sign of movement.
Fatigue pricks at my eyes and my head is swimming, still pounding from where I hit it earlier. We didn’t sleep last night after spotting the Kovarian troops, and I’d gotten very little the night before. But for how tired I am, I can’t sleep.
A breeze simmers through the cool night air, brushing open the tent flaps with a small gust, and every muscle in my body goes rigid. After several long seconds, when no one enters, I release my breath, my body slumping back against the post.
I suppose I should be thankful the prince’s men had left so quickly that they hadn’t even bothered to check me for weapons.
My knife remains strapped against my upper thigh, still hidden under my skirts, despite the large tear up one leg.
After giving up on wriggling free, I spent the better part of the last hour trying to work out how to get ahold of the blade.
I shift again, my wrists screaming with the slight movement. Hours of trying to slip free of the iron cuffs has not been kind to my skin.
No matter how many times I twist, reach, and strain for the dagger sheathed at my thigh, I lean back against the wooden pole at my back, staring up at the tent’s ceiling, finally acknowledging that getting away may just be impossible.
All I can do now is wait for Rusic to release me, and when he does… my knife will be ready.
I try to be content with the plan, but fear has its hold on me, and I cannot hide from the monster inside my head.
I should be dead.
They should have killed me.
Instead, I was given away on a whim—an object to possess. A gift.
A low growl escapes me, my cheeks burning with anger. I am Princess Rowena Vivietta Valrose of Sitara, and under no circumstances will I bow to some human captain, general, or whoever the fuck he thinks he is.
I cling to that rage, letting it carry me to the next minute—the next hour—the next day?
Will I even see tomorrow?
Perhaps the captain will do me a favor and kill me immediately. He hardly seemed interested in anything other than my swift death. Only my title had given him pause back in the ballroom. I later found out from Theo’s men that any royals found were to be delivered to the prince.
That’s it. My way out. If escape isn’t an option, I will make him kill me. I have to.
I won’t let him use me against my brothers.
I won’t let him use me, period.
I place escape high on my to-do list, but I’m not dense enough to think it will be an easy task.
The captain’s tent is only a short walk from the prince’s. While they didn’t blind me again with that light-cursed hood, I was too busy resisting them on the walk over to properly assess my surroundings.
Stupid mistake.
But I saw enough to know I’m deep inside the Kovarian war camp.
And with the prince’s tent in such close proximity, I am either at or close to the center.
Thousands of soldiers likely stand between me and the woods.
And even if I were to make it, the woods themselves would not only be my salvation—they would be my next threat.
I’ve never been permitted to enter the Wyldewood on my own for good reason.
No. I run my tongue over the rough edges of my split lip; the bitter metallic taste tells me it’s still oozing blood. Escape is a long shot. I made this decision when I sealed the tunnel: he will kill me, or I will make him.
More time passes, the hour growing late, and with it comes the sounds of revelry—soldiers celebrating their victory outside. Their merriment carries on long into the night. It’s a welcome distraction as I try my best to avoid playing out scenario after scenario in my head.
I shift uncomfortably. I have to be so careful in my movements now as the restraints have rubbed my wrists raw, my fingers sticky with my own blood.
I shift my weight again, curling in on myself at the base of the pole, trying my best to relieve the ache from the cold in my legs and warm up my half-frozen body, when movement by the door has me instantly still.
The tent flap rips back, a dark figure stepping through, and an involuntary shiver tears through me at the sight.
It’s so dark—the candles have burned nearly all the way down. I can’t make out his face, but I don’t have to; I’m certain—it’s him. The tall, commanding presence with just a touch of arrogance can’t belong to anyone else.
I sit as still as stone, my back ramrod straight, pressed hard into the wood.
He hasn’t seen me yet. The pole to which I’m tied sits far back from the entrance, the shadows working in my favor for once.
Like prey trying not to attract the attention of a predator, I remain motionless—refusing to blink while barely breathing.
The captain enters his tent, removing a bow and quiver from his back before setting it down by the door. Next, he unbelts his sword from his waist, setting the weapon further inside, up against the small table.
He pulls down his blood-red cowl, revealing his braids and face as he leans down to make use of the washbasin, not bothering to heat the water first.
While attempting to become one with the pole, I seize the opportunity to study him more closely.
He’s tall, broad, with muscled shoulders, and arms nearly as wide as my waist. His presence alone makes the tent feel infinitely smaller.
Dried blood and dirt do little to diminish how handsome he actually is, with high cheekbones and a chiseled jawline.
In the dim light of the tent, his hair looks to be a muddy brown, and while the sides of it are shaved, the rest is left long, pulled and braided intricately back away from his face and tied securely behind his head with a leather cord.
The black marks across his face and skull are even more smudged than they were before, confirming they were painted on like I’d guessed earlier.
The darker and unrelenting ink of his tattoos curl up his neck in swirling patterns, or perhaps even runes, which piques my interest.
Runes haven’t been used for centuries—not since the fae abandoned the old teachings after the tethering.
I’ve only ever seen their likeness in the oldest books in Rosecliff’s library, but the runes crawling up the captain’s arm and neck don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before.
Seeing the delicate and intricate markings etched atop the tanned and hardened skin of a Kovari warrior is… unexpected.
Rusic shifts closer to the candlelight, and the orange glow reveals subtle flashes of gold within his hair, nearly hidden completely under a thick layer of dirt and grime.
I watch as he washes off the dark red splatters on his face and arms with little to no emotion.
The way he moves reminds me of the fae warriors Fel and Riven train with—purposeful, intent, exuding strength in power in every motion.
He is dangerous. And I’d do best to remember that.
With the dirt and blood washed away, his youth is even more apparent. Nowhere near the age I would expect for someone of his rank. He looks far closer in age to Fel, or his own buddy—the prince—just a few years older than me.
“Fel’s sister.” Theo’s words haunt my thoughts. So oddly specific. Do they know each other?
I’m the Princess of Sitara, but Theo seemed far more interested in the fact I am my brother’s sister. What does Fel have to do with any of this? He might be the heir, but he wasn’t even here for the battle…
Although Fel and his men captured Theo just outside of Rosecliff, Theo hardly seemed vengeful over it. Though he did mention the captain was owed Valrose blood.
Why?
Rusic reaches across his shoulder, unfastening the buckle of the black armoured chest plate, sliding it off.
The leather slips away, revealing more powerful muscles, the candlelight causing shadows to dance along the deep crevices.
Nearly every inch of skin is covered in those same swirling black markings.
Leaning further over the basin, he rinses his face one last time, staring into the water for a long while before releasing a sigh.
I don’t move; my breath catches as my lungs constrict in my chest.
The captain’s hand trails slowly down his face, before his dark eyes lift, stopping the racing heart in my chest the moment they lock with mine.
I swallow hard, staring into obsidian eyes, nearly as dark as the shadow stones themselves. My own strangled breath betrays me, a small whimper squeaking through. Alarm bells ring in my head, every one of them urging me to run.
But I can’t.
Still, I make one more feeble attempt to pull a hand free of the iron cuffs while stifling yet another whimper that forms in my throat.
The captain’s eyes take me in, but he does not move—doesn’t stalk over to inspect his present.
Instead, the man rises slowly, his dark eyes glittering with a white-hot rage, his gaze never leaving me.
He moves so slowly, giving no warning before suddenly shoving the basin from the table.
The metal bowl crashes down with an alarming clatter.
I flinch—hard.
My heart pounds within my chest, so loud I can hear it in my ears. I freeze again, the captain’s furious gaze pinning me in his sights.
“What—the fuck—” a deep growl emanates low in his throat beneath his words, “—are you doing here?”