Chapter 29
By some blessing, the Horrads held no ceremony. But there was food. Copious amounts of it.
We were led to where wide-stitched blankets had been laid across the ground. Water came first, followed by piles of flatbread and a train of fire-roasted meats. They were whole, defeathered birds, small and skinny. The meat was plain, but no one cared.
We feasted like gluttons, cleaning bones with our teeth before biting into whatever new bird was placed before us. The Horrads were attentive, refilling cups and offering damp strips of fabric to clean our hands. Even the wolf was fed.
All the while, the body of the slain giant remained where it’d fallen on the ground, completely ignored.
When we were done, our bellies overfull, the Horrad leader escorted us to two small tents behind their own. They nudged me toward one and gestured all four men toward the other. Of course, Harthon ignored them and edged next to me.
“I’m with Etarla,” he told the group. “One of you needs to be outside at all times.” He glanced at the wolf, who’d remained stuck to my side. “With him.”
“He tries to eat me, and I’m killing him,” Aric warned.
My brows slammed together. “They were ready to kill me before he came. We wouldn’t be alive if not for him.” Leaning to the side, I brushed a finger across the soft fur at the animal’s ear. It made a chuffing sound—in pleasure, I think?
Wonder softened my tone as I said, “He saved us. Try some gratitude.”
“Perhaps he saved us because he wants us for a meal.”
“And perhaps you shouldn’t assume things you don’t actually know.”
My words sounded an awful lot like Josenne’s parting warning. Do not pretend to know things you have no knowledge of, she’d said. I never thought I’d be recycling advice from that woman, but it was fitting now.
Not that Aric took it. He quirked a brow as he regarded the animal, and the wolf’s jaw split, revealing sharp canines, like he knew Aric was debating the best way to kill him.
“Hurt him and you answer to me,” Harthon said evenly.
Before Aric could respond, Harthon tugged me toward our tent. He entered first, one hand wielding a blade, the other on my arm.
The blade turned out to be unnecessary. The interior of the tent was plain but clean, the evening’s muted light filtering in through slits in the ceiling.
A thin, lumpy bed occupied the far wall.
Near it was a small, wood-carved basin of water, alongside a table holding a pitcher, cups, and more flatbread.
“What you said out there was wrong.”
I spun at Harthon’s abrupt statement. “What do you mean?”
“About the wolf saving us,” he said gruffly, sheathing his blade.
Even now, in the privacy of this tent, he continued to appear as the cold, hardened warrior.
I blinked in confusion. With a heavy step, he met my toes. The stench of sweat and grime came with him, but his familiar musk lingered beneath it. Stiff fingers gripped my chin and tilted my face up. “You saved us, carella. Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise.”
I tried to shake my head, but his hold tightened, keeping me in place. I resorted to words, ugly ones that were painful to say.
“In case that head injury has impaired your memory, I made you fight a monster of a man to save yourself. That was the best I was able to negotiate.” My breath turned shaky. “I almost killed you.”
He brought his face level with mine. With deliberate precision, he said, “The only wrong you’ve done me is thinking I might actually be killed in a fight, carella.
” His cheek twitched with amusement I didn’t share.
“You are the only reason I am standing here. Your strength, your courage, your brilliant negotiation—that is what saved us. Had you not arranged that battle, I would have died a dishonorable death at merciless hands. So would the others. There were no other options for you to broker.” His thumb stroked across my jaw. “And you already know this.”
My eyes fluttered shut as I leaned into that tender, sweeping touch.
His fingers could have still been covered in blood and I wouldn’t have cared.
“Of course, I know the logic of it.” Maybe it was because my eyes were closed that the next admission came out.
“The problem is, I’m far past the point of only considering you with logic. ”
It was honest. And revealing. And it felt right to tell him this.
The air by my face shifted, and I felt the light press of his lips on my hairline. “It’s a mutual circumstance,” he murmured, his breath stirring my hair. “And I would never consider it a problem.”
My heart thumped, and I opened my eyes, only to close them again as his lips met mine. The kiss began as something slow and decadent, his tongue gliding against mine, lips savoring.
But it wasn’t enough. Not after almost losing him.
I gripped his bloodied vest and rose to my toes, pressing my mouth more firmly to his.
My hips followed, my fingers curling around his shoulders in a sudden, greedy desperation.
An irrational sense of urgency crashed down, like he could be stolen away from me at any moment.
And, skies, it was true—it had never been so apparent as when that giant had nearly bashed his head in.
A deep rumble reverberated in his throat, and my urgency seemed to flow right into him. He released my face to grip the back of my head, his other arm wrapping tightly around my back, capturing me in his embrace as his kiss turned feverish.
It was like we were trying to swallow one another, teeth scraping, his shadow of a beard abrading my skin I whimpered into his mouth.
His hands skimmed down to my ass, fingertips bruising as he hefted my hips closer to where he was hard and hot.
My core pulsed, shooting a current of need up my spine.
He abruptly tore his mouth away. “The way you make me feel,” he cursed through swollen lips, his hips pulsing into mine as his fingers dug further into my skin.
“Don’t stop.” My whisper was one of unabashed need.
His eyes closed and he dropped his forehead to mine, breathing heavily through his nose. His hard length pressed against my belly as his hips jerked again. “We need to,” he gritted out.
I nudged his nose and found his mouth again. He gave in, meeting my tongue stroke for stroke, until we parted to breathe and he shook his head. This time, his grip on me began to loosen. Something like pain creased his forehead.
Skies, he was injured, and here I was, mauling him. I yanked my hands back like they’d found hot coals. “Where do you hurt?”
“Believe me, carella, it isn’t that.” His eyes opened, and the look he gave me was all heat.
It only intensified when he said, “No injuries could stop me from taking you to bed, giving in to the animal inside of me, and burying myself inside you so completely that you won’t be able to walk without thinking of me for days. ”
The crude words zipped right to the juncture of my thighs.
Never had he spoken to me in such a way.
When it came to intimacy, he’d always been tender and gentle.
Painstakingly slow and somewhat teasing.
But now I was wondering if he’d been holding back, tempering the part of him that was rough and primitive.
I was desperate to know.
“Is that what it’s like, after a battle?”
“That’s what it’s like fairly often,” he answered, his voice like gravel. “But especially after a fight.”
So he had been holding back.
I swallowed, not understanding how the admission was winding me tighter. “When will I get to experience it?”
Perhaps he thought it would scare me, but from my body’s current response, I wanted to open the gates. I wanted to set this man, all of him, free.
My response wasn’t what he’d been expecting, because he blinked. He recovered quickly, and when he did, those fingers tightened all over again. “As soon as we are somewhere I can wholly consume you.”
All at once, he released me, stepping back, though it seemed like the last thing he wanted to do.
Cool air rushed in to replace that heat, and I willed it into my body. Harthon was right. Even with one of our men standing guard outside and the wolf, this was no time to get lost in each other.
And despite what he said, he was hurting.
“In that case, allow me to tend to you while you stand vigilant guard.”
He nodded toward the small washing basin. “You first.”
“No.” I reached for his bicep. When he started to object, I said, “You’re not arguing with me. Come here.”
He let me drag him to the wash basin, albeit unhappily. Several rags, a threaded bone-carved needle, and what looked like stale soap were neatly stacked beside it.
“Take your vest and tunic off,” I instructed.
“I’m not putting my weapons down.”
I lifted a brow. “Then hand them to me while you take off your vest and tunic, and put them back on your bare skin.”
He exhaled, glanced at the tent’s entrance, and begrudgingly pulled the straps over his head.
So the man didn’t like to be taken care of.
Too damn bad.
I caught the wince he tried to hide when he took the weapons from me and replaced them over his torso. For probably the first time ever, I wasn’t distracted by the strong structure and shapes of his body. All my attention was on the blooming discoloration and angry wounds.
His neck was the worst of it, yellow and purple splotches roping his throat where the Horrad’s hands had mauled him.
Vying for second place was the space beneath his ribs, his muscled torso swollen and red, followed by that horrible, crusted wound along his scalp.
Not far behind were the bruises spreading over his jaw.
Better than him being dead, I reminded myself.
Dragging the stool over, I ordered him to sit. He did—with another sigh—making sure to face the entrance.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared this will hurt,” I challenged as I wet and soaped a rag. The suds smelled faintly of herbs.
“It isn’t very kind to insult an injured man.”
An injured dramatic man.