Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
The boredom is getting to me again.
I turn to people watching, or in this case monster watching, and this time it’s the curious behaviour down at the captive part of camp.
Some of the warriors go down that way, when the camp is asleep and very few are awake.
Normally I’m asleep, I sleep through camp a lot. But this night, I sit against the headstone and watch warrior after warrior go down to the captives—
To the kept women among them.
The cleaner, tidier ones.
Evate.
Mate.
That’s what Mika said.
I don’t think she was lying to me.
Each warrior is different, but they all have something in common. Each one of them brings something for one of the women.
For their… mates?
I can’t go wrapping my head around what that even means right now. It’s too much. It’s insane.
But whatever anyone wants to call it, there is one captive human woman for one warrior that brings them a gift.
Some of them are wrapped in bags. Paper bags, satchels, glittering clutches—and so I know those were just looted from towns and cities the fae destroyed.
The distance between this campfire and the captives is too far to make out every single thing pulled out from the bags, no matter how I squint my eyes or lean forward until my knees press too hard into my chest, I can’t quite make out more beyond new socks, boots, a scarf, a jacket—and a lump of fluff that I think is either a plush toy of sorts, an animal maybe, or most likely, a hat.
Connie is the one to get boots.
Her warrior hands her the boots, not bagged, then drops some packets at her feet that I think are snacks, crisps, things like that, then he’s gone, stalking back to his place in camp.
Strange that he did it like that. Some of the others hang around for a minute or two, don’t just throw things at their mates then leave.
I watch all sorts of interactions, but most are longer than a quick drop off.
I watch warriors crouch down in front of the rigid captive, then offer their bagged gifts, or tend to wounds like sore ankles and scraped cheeks.
There’s even a warrior who risks touch. Gentle, swift strokes of her hair. Like genuine affection.
Disgusting.
Absolute fucking psychopaths with their pet women.
I hate them, I hate them all.
Evil has no purpose, no motivation, no story, no love. It’s just evil, and there’s no point in trying to understand it. Even if it’s all I have to fill all these quiet moments.
I should be focused only on Rust.
But he’s asleep a few campfires down, and Samick is sitting awake beside me on the grass.
Arwyn is awake, too.
They don’t sleep.
More than their icy auras, more than the white blood in place of tar, Arwyn and Samick just don’t sleep very much.
I mean, sure, Arwyn just got back, but even now, he’s awake, watching the flames, and Mika’s passed out beside him.
I’m not as relaxed as they apparently are.
Every so often, I lift my chin, raise my gaze over the flames, and look at where Rust sleeps. On his back, a dagger in his fist and rested on his chest.
He’s still asleep.
It doesn’t ease me.
Rust’s position in the camp is a short distance down from us, but that gives him access—to watch me.
And he did, for hours and hours, wine bottles passed around, stories told, laughter grumbling, his gaze melted in with the fires, aimed at us through the flames.
It’s because of him I’m awake now.
Any time I drift off, whether for a minute or an hour, I startle to the fear that he’s standing over me, dagger raised, ready to plunge it down into my heart—and the winter fae just lets it happen.
That’s how I woke up about an hour ago.
Samick merely considered me in his silence, a gaze slid to the corner of his eyes, tired of me, before he returned to his sewing.
Now, that leather and wool strip is tucked away in the satchel. He traded it for his sketchbook.
He’s been running those chalky sticks over the thick parchment pages for a while now, long enough for an entire log in the fire to be eaten away.
He draws a garden.
Sprawling, it overlooks the ripples of a sea, and it’s neat, organised, split into three sections with paths dividing them. But it’s an outline, and I can’t make out more than that.
I turn my cheek to him and startle.
Arwyn considers me through the flames. His stone gaze isn’t on my face. It’s aimed at my gut. His head is tilted, and before I can even recoil from his stare, it happens.
A twisting stab of pain.
My face tightens with a grimace.
My hand is quick to worm under my jacket and hold my belly, firm, as though that’ll ease the cramps somehow.
The cramps…
I throw a startled look at Samick’s gaze already fixed down his nose at me.
Behind the wheel, at the back of the mausoleums, he gave me the pad, told me to use it, and he didn’t give me much choice in it.
Because he knew.
He knew my period was coming…
Worse than that.
He didn’t just know it was coming, he knows it has actually hit right now, in this moment, that my insides are twisting and that blood is coming out.
I turn my hot cheek to his stare.
I avoid Arwyn’s just as intently.
I huddle up and watch the flames.