CHAPTER 20
THE NORTHERN WOODS
Present Day
Just a dream. I’m safe.
I repeat the words in my head, struggling to shed the bloody dreams from my waking life. It seems the reprieve of my demon was short lived. My darkness now very much at the forefront of my mind with demands of its own.
My eyes struggle to focus, and I’m flooded with memories of the icy river churning around me, forcing its way into my lungs.
I’m safe and warm and…
High flames still lick the logs of the crackling fire. The general must have been feeding it through the night. If not, it would have died out long ago.
The weight of his arm is draped over my hip, his thumb sweeping idle circles dangerously low on my belly. His breath is a rhythmic pulse, teasing the fine whisps of hair on the back of my neck, his rigid length pressed firmly against my backside.
My darkness uncoils under the attention of his caress, fighting to the surface to meet him.
With every pass of his thumb, it yearns to be satisfied, just as it pushed me to find my release in the ring every morning.
My stomach flutters, tensing as my core clenches and the gentle swirl of his hand falters.
He rises from our makeshift bed on the floor, clothes rustling as he dresses behind me.
I remain frozen on the floor, too many puzzled thoughts rage in the crashing torrent of my mind.
It occurs to me that he touched me much the same way the night we delivered the sword to the orphanage, and he’d been obviously displeased by the actions of his hand then.
Telling myself that the touch is nothing more than a thoughtless fidget I breathe a little easier.
Leanna taught me enough to easily excuse the warm press of his malehood in the morning.
Some things, I was taught, are out of a male’s control.
The floorboards creak beneath the heavy fall of his footsteps and he lays my clothes in a neatly folded pile by my head before leaving the cabin.
“Get dressed. We won’t be alone much longer,” he says.
The moment the door latches shut behind him I pull my clothes under the quilt and dress as quickly as I can.
The feeling is gone the moment I slip on my leathers.
They are bone dry, still warm from sitting by the fire, as are my boots when I cinch them to my calves.
The silk dress is bound for the next life, torn across the back, its bodice and skirt frayed at nearly every hem. Still, it’s better than nothing.
A large gash in the thin fabric exposes an angry wound below my breast. It's tender to the touch but not life threatening, barring infection.
I run my fingers through my hair, my braid had come undone in the river and I’d gone to sleep with it wet.
I’m sure I look a mess. The curly nest of tangles can be unruly on the best of days.
I suck in a pained breath when my hands find the knot where I struck my head.
Also tender, also not life threatening. Probably.
The throbbing pain in my side is perhaps the only wound that feels much worse upon rising this morning.
Standing in the center of the cabin, I lift the dress to examine the extent of the injury when the general barges through the front door.
The only door. Other than a small shelf with a lone carving of a wolf, there is little more adorning the cabin than the trunk in the corner and a small bed built into the wall.
The general’s eyes flick to my bruising side before I can pull my dress down to cover it. His eyes narrow on the discoloration, and he points to the bed as he issues his demand, “Sit down.” I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he adds, “Please.”
I don’t argue. My body feels exactly how I’d imagine if someone told me they’d been tumbled over a mile of root and stone at the bottom of a swift river. I can hardly wait to get back to the palace and sink into the hottest, longest bath of my life.
He takes a knee before me, dropping his satchel to the floor and asks, “May I?”
He waits for me to give him a small nod before lifting the thin fabric of my dress, exposing my torso. He glares at the blooming bruise, and I flinch when his hand meets with the discolored skin, a little from the pain and a little from the unexpected contact.
“It could be fractured,” he says, “A healer will know more.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him.
“There is that word again,” he says with a sigh.
He produces a salve from his bag and coats his fingers with a thick dab of the pungent ointment before smoothing it over the mark until it melts into the skin. The moment the salve touches it the pain lessons considerably.
“What was it about your life in La’tari that made you feel you had to be so strong?” he asks without meeting my eyes.
“I don’t know,” I say, “What is it about your life here that keeps that look of eternal annoyance on your face?”
“I am not annoyed,” he argues.
I hum, disbelieving, as the male settles my dress around my waist, slicking his thumb with another dab of salve. This he spreads on the cut below my breast, and blood rushes to my cheeks when I’m reminded of the idle sweep of his thumb I felt upon waking.
“Perhaps what you perceive as annoyance is simply caution,” he says.
“I don’t know about that. You seemed pretty annoyed the night you drugged my tea.”
His brow furrows when I mention it, his eyes meeting mine briefly when he says, “I am sorry about that. I didn’t know you then.”
“And you think you know me now?”
“I’m beginning to,” he says, slicking his thumb with fresh ointment and cupping my chin, running the salve across the long cut on my cheek.
“I do not take the lives of my friends lightly, and my trust in strangers is not easily earned,” he adds.
“And you trust me?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“No,” he admits, “but I am hopeful you’ll gain that trust.”
I can’t fault him for his honesty, yet his confession stings when it shouldn’t. He has every right not to trust me, every reason to guard those he loves. Especially from me.
“Do you make a habit of taking women you don’t trust to bed?” I quip, trying to keep myself from the dark spiral of my thoughts.
“I do not,” he says, capping the salve and dropping it into his satchel before grabbing my chin and pinning me with his gaze, “but if anyone could persuade me, it would be you.”
I suck in a breath when his eyes drop to my lips. What did he just say? There is no time to untangle the messy weave of questions, objections, and emotions before his eyes fall to the floor, and he tips a pointed ear toward the door.
“They are here.” He drops my chin and stands, offering me his hand unnecessarily.
I take it, because what else am I going to do? The male just admitted he doesn’t trust me and in the next breath offered me a direct line into his good graces. I think.
Muffled voices filter in through the thick walls and he helps me to my feet, dropping my hand as he heads for the door. I follow him out, squinting against the blinding light of the morning sun. Awri and Riesh head a small party of mounted soldiers up the steep incline leading to the cabin.
“A little excessive,” the general says.
He directs the comment at Riesh, who laughs his reply, “Be happy Toren didn’t send the entire army to scour the forest for his missing general. These are the least he would allow me to bring when I told him we lost you in the woods.”
My brooding companion hardly seems surprised, turning to Awri the next moment. “Kishek?”
“Still recovering,” she sighs with a solemn shake of her head.
“Have you brought a healer?” the general asks with a dipped brow.
A thick tension saturates the entire party, every back stiffening, every eye searching the general for his wounds.
Riesh waves a dark-haired male with ebony skin forward, who asks if the general has been injured.
He shakes his head and motions toward me, the tension leaving the party as quickly as it came once they realize the only one injured here is the fragile mortal.
I suck in an annoyed breath and glare at the general.
“I’m f—”
“Fine,” he says, finishing my repetitious claim. “So you’ve said. You will still let Caden look you over before we head back.”
Not an offer. A demand.
I manage to suppress my protests about taking orders from him. I don’t disagree with the premise of being checked by a healer, but the self-important male has no right to force me to live my life on his terms.
Caden doesn’t even dismount before shaking his head, offering the general an apologetic frown. “You’ve used the ilyandis salve on her. I can feel it.”
The general gives the male a nod.
“Then you know she can’t be healed until the effect of the herb wears off.”
The general’s jaw stiffens, relenting in his pursuit of my healing with a heavy sigh. Seeing he’s not surprised by the healer’s declaration, I have to wonder why he even asked.
I repeat the name of the herb in my mind until I’m sure I won’t forget it.
An interesting dichotomy. An herb that when applied will render pain nearly absent but prevent healing.
I imagine the battles that could be waged with such an herb.
A soldier that would never yield until their dying breath.
I wonder briefly if the herb can be turned into a draught or tonic before the general snaps me out of my musings.
“You will ride with me,” he says, tying his satchel to a riderless mare.
“That is unnecessary,” I voice firmly, my eyes falling on another riderless horse nearby.
I want to add that I feel fine but decide to leave it at that.
He leads his horse to me, blocking the rest of the party from view, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’re injured. I know you feel better right now, but that herb will likely wear off before we reach the palace.”
I don’t immediately argue, but I’m sure he can see that it’s in my mind when he adds, “I’ve ridden with a similar wound and trust me, you’re likely to hate yourself if you don’t rest until it can be mended.”