Page 13 of The Dead Saint

She pushed his hand away, reaching up to tug at the high neckline of the dress. The tattoo on her chest began beneath her collarbones, wrapping her breasts and torso, following the line of her hips and down her thighs. Ankles to wrists to neck. Her whole body covered in the history of the Saint.

She pulled the neckline down enough to show the edge of the tattoo beneath her collarbone, a swirl of gold and blue. “In my seventeenth year, I took the final step and began the map ceremony.”

He touched her collarbone with one gloved finger, following the line of bone beneath skin. The contact made heat writhe within her, a horrible mix of desire and disgust. He touched her with his gloves on, a layer between them, and more than anything, she wanted to take those gloves off. She wanted him to touch her with his bare hands.

His hand dropped away. “How long did it take?”

“It takes years to finish the map.” She bit her lip, mind racing.

The map on her skin was incomplete. She’d not yet completed the rituals. Now, she never would.

“And you believe the pieces of the Saint can be found in these places?”

“Your prince believes it. Don’t you trust your prince?”

“Always.” He stood, staring down at her. “But I am not blinded by the impending death of someone I love. I won’t be fooled by your death cult. I won’t be taken in by your innocence.”

She snorted, angry with his coldness, with herself for sharing so much without a second thought. “And what will you do if you find out it’s nothing but a myth after all?”

“I’ll kill you myself,” he said. “We leave in a few minutes.”

He turned away, his broad back to her, and walked through camp toward his waiting men, leaving her cold by a dying fire.

Chapter Six

The Wolf rode behind her on the way back to the army. Sorcha kept her spine straight, wanting to avoid any contact with him, but it was impossible. Awareness coursed through her, the contact inevitable, as his arm brushed her or when he leaned forward. His thighs were on either side of her, and even as she leaned forward, it was impossible to escape the contact.

Briefly, she wondered if he was leaning into her on purpose, keeping the contact even as she tried to wriggle away as far as possible.

“Can you not sit so close?” she asked finally, wriggling forward in the saddle for the hundredth time.

Behind her, the Wolf snorted, switching the reins from one hand to the other, brushing her leg as he did.

Sorcha shivered at the delicate contact, stomach twisting. She didn’t like the way it made her feel, the way his warmth at her back was somehow comforting.

Sorcha wanted comfort, needed to be held and told that everything was going to be okay. It felt as if nothing would ever be the same, and she knew it wouldn’t. For a little while, she wanted to pretend, to forget. But the blood beneath her nails and dried on the hem of her dress was a constant reminder. And the hole in the middle of her chest would never be filled, the grief never relieved.

Bring us back.

But how? How was she going to find all the relics on her own with an army searching as well? How would she find them if the Wolf was on her heels? She needed to escape. Rohan had promised there would be help in the other temples, that she would never be alone.

There would be an opportunity to escape, and she would take it.

* * *

The Wolf’s men were waiting for him as they reached the outskirts of the main encampment of the army of the White Snake. The man she’d heard called Revenant had ridden ahead to ensure hot water would be waiting and to dispatch a messenger to the Traveling City.

As they approached, a group came forward, men she recognized from the small camp from the night before. Then, their teeth had been blackened, tongues dark, but now their mouths were pink and clean. Sorcha wondered if it were a ritual of sorts, a superstition.

Revenant stood at the head of the group, and she felt his yellow-eyed stare boring into her. She shivered, not liking the sensation, feeling his dislike as if it were a physical force.

When Nox reached them, Sorcha slid off the horse before the Wolf could dismount and help her down. As she’d come to expect, the horse turned to nip at her, and she darted out of the way, his teeth barely missing the sleeve of her dress.

“You’re a mean horse,” Sorcha whispered, glancing up to catch the barest curve of the Wolf’s lips as he dismounted.

“The general is here and wants to speak with you,” Revenant said.

The Wolf nodded. “Take her to my tent. Don’t let her leave.”

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