Chapter 5 #2
He arched an eyebrow and when she gave him a blank stare, he mimed what she’d done in the tent. Oh. Her cheeks flamed, and his lips quirked before he turned his back to give her privacy. Apparently this was his world’s version of toilet paper.
At least it’s soft. And eco-friendly.
She took care of business as quickly as possible and when she joined him, he pointed to the tent. He wanted her to go back.
She looked at the men by the fire and went.
The scent of tea—or something close to it—met her when he returned a few minutes later with a small bowl of warm water, a steaming mug and a piece of heavy bread studded with dried fruit.
He sat near the tent entrance while she washed her hands and face, then ate.
The bread was dry and the bitter, earthy flavor of the drink was something that would take getting used to, but it was warm and filling.
When she was done, he took the bowl and packed it away, along with the sleeping furs, moving with an efficiency that spoke of years of practice.
She had to step outside as he quickly took down the tent, and her stomach clenched as the three men leered at her. They didn’t even try to hide it. The one with the scar who appeared to be their leader said something crude to the others before they started loading the horses.
Horses. She’d vaguely noticed them the night before but the reality of the situation suddenly hit her.
I’m going to be on one of those horses.
She had ridden exactly twice in her life. Once as a child at a fair, on a pony so old and docile it barely counted. Once in her first year at university, when a well-meaning friend had dragged her to a stable and she’d spent the entire hour rigid with terror.
She was not a horse person, but she suspected she wasn’t going to have a choice.
Khorrek joined her, his arms loaded with bundles, and headed for the horses with that ground-eating stride that made her have to jog to keep up. Since the alternative was staying near the fire with the soldiers, she jogged.
He stopped beside the largest horse—a massive black stallion that made the other mounts look like ponies. He quickly fastened the various bundles in place, then threw one of the furs over the saddle before turning to her.
“Thrak.”
Horse? Probably horse.
“Thrak,” she repeated dutifully.
He told her the words for saddle and stirrup and she repeated them, storing them in the mental filing system she’d developed over years of language study. Noun. Object. No verb forms yet, but those would come.
Then he gestured at the horse’s back. She looked at the massive animal, then gave him an exasperated look.
“How am I supposed to get up there?”
He might not have understood her words, but he clearly understood her reaction because he simply reached down, grabbed her gently around the waist and lifted her onto the horse.
The world lurched. Suddenly she was eight feet off the ground, straddling a creature that could kill her with one well-placed kick, with nothing but a borrowed tunic and a fur between her and the saddle.
This is fine. This is completely fine. I’m not about to have a panic attack on horseback in the middle of nowhere in another dimension.
Before her panic could overwhelm her, he swung up behind her in a smooth motion that barely made the horse shift. His arms came around her, reaching for the reins and bracketing her in warmth and leather and that wild earthy scent.
Oh. Oh no.
This was… close. Intimate. The kind of proximity that made her acutely aware of every breath he took, every shift of his weight, every point where his body pressed against hers.
He’d put on another tunic like the one she was wearing but it didn’t make any difference.
Her brain, traitor that it was, decided this was an excellent time to notice that he was solid muscle under all that leather.
That his chest was a wall of heat against her back. That being held like this felt…
Stop. Stop that right now. He kidnapped me. This is not the time for—whatever this is.
The horse started moving. She grabbed the saddle, her knuckles white, trying not to think about how far away the ground was or how easily she could fall or how his arm was now across her waist, holding her steady.
He said something into her ear, close enough that his breath stirred her hair. She didn’t know what it meant, but the tone was clear.
Relax. Stop tensing up like you’re about to die.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You’re not the one who—”
He repeated the word again. It was still incomprehensible, but the rumble of his voice vibrated through his chest into her back, oddly soothing despite her lack of understanding.
The landscape rolled past as they rode off—endless grassland broken by occasional stands of twisted trees and rocky outcroppings. No roads. No signs of civilization. Where were they going?
The men were on their own horses, and they kept a careful distance away from them.
They’re afraid of him, she realized. Or at least wary.
Good. If they were afraid of him, they were less likely to try anything with her.
I’m relying on my kidnapper for protection. Think about how messed up that is.
But messed up or not, it was her current reality. And she had never been one to ignore reality just because it was uncomfortable.
The morning wore on. The sun climbed higher, burning off the pre-dawn chill and replacing it with a gentle warmth. The landscape remained monotonously similar—grass, rocks, and distant mountains.
And through it all, his presence at her back, solid and unexpectedly reassuring in a situation that should have been terrifying.
I’m developing Stockholm syndrome, her rational mind noted. This is textbook trauma bonding.
Maybe. But her rational mind also recognized that he was the only thing standing between her and the men who looked at her like prey. He’d given her clothes and food and warmth when he could have done none of those things. He was teaching her his language instead of keeping her ignorant.
Why, though? What did he gain from any of this?
That was the question that gnawed at her. Understanding why someone did something meant being able to predict their behavior, but she had no idea why he acted the way he did.
He was a puzzle she couldn’t yet solve, so she did what she always did with puzzles—gathered more data.
She pointed at the grass and made a questioning sound.
He glanced down. “Thernak.”
“Thernak,” she repeated, mangling the guttural consonant.
“Thernak,” he corrected, emphasizing the final sound, and she tried again. “Thernak.”
He gave a grunt that might have been approval.
Encouraged, she pointed at the sky. The trees. The mountains. Each time making that questioning sound, each time receiving a word in return. It was a small start, but it was a start.