Page 15 of The Dead Saint

Sorcha sat up, stiff in his presence. The energy he brought to the space crackled through the air, settling to buzz beneath her breastbone.

She watched him, her hands clenched around the book. He didn’t look at her as he stood and began to strip. Layer after layer came off, the red leather armor shed like a second skin. She couldn’t look away as he removed the tunic, pulling the thin cotton shirt over his head to reveal his muscled torso covered in fading scars. When he reached for the waist of the pants, she sucked in a breath and turned away, cheeks heating.

“What’s your name?” he asked as clothing rustled.

“Don’t you know it?” Her question came out breathless, and she fought to keep her gaze on the book.

Water splashed, and he let out a breath, not a sigh exactly, but close.

“If I knew your name, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Then how did you find me?” she asked, turning to look at him.

The Wolf wore nothing but a thin pair short pants, his back to her, hands braced against the basin stand. Their gazes met in the mirror, and he arched an eyebrow at her. Dark eyes. Black in the light of the fire and in the shadows of the tent. Eyes so deep she could fall into them and lose herself. The muscles in his back rippled as he shifted, picking up the cloth from the basin and wringing it out. Sorcha swallowed.

“The vessel. A young woman with unusual tattoos. Dark hair, green eyes. On the run, looking for a way out of the city. Possibly guarded by a member of the Crimson Cult.” He spoke so easily, so matter of fact—her life reduced to a few words.

He looked away, going back to the water, and smoothed a wet cloth over his face and neck.

“Who gave you all that information?”

“A priest from the Summer Palace.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

She shivered. His tone was ice—so calm—as if death meant nothing. The temple had taught her that it was a brief moment, something to pass through to the other side, where the Saint waited. But this man? What did death mean to him when he meted it out so easily to others who didn’t have faith?

“Why am I here?” she whispered.

“The prince wants you here.”

“But why? I’m not important!” It was a lie, and she knew he saw through her protest.

“You aren’t the vessel for the Saint?” he asked in a low voice.

She froze, terror racing through each vein, the hair on the back of her neck standing. Warning bells jarred in her mind. There was nothing to hide. There was no playing dumb. This man was a killer, a monster, and he’d killed members of the Aureum Sanctus. He’d killed entire kingdoms, slaying city after city. Right now, she feared him more than the prince. More than death. More than what might be waiting on the other side of death for her.

“Aren’t you?” he asked again, setting the cloth down and crossing to her. He grasped her chin, tilting her face toward the firelight, studying her. “You’re the woman with the tattoos. Your eyes are green. Your hair is dark. You’re the woman I’ve heard so much about.”

Sorcha held her breath, keeping her eyes on his face, refusing to look away. His face was impassive, showing nothing, no hint or sign of his thoughts.

Slowly, she reached up, placing her hand on his. The contact was electric, somehow more intimate than his hand alone on her face. Something flashed in his eyes, like a ripple passing across a still body of water and made by something far beneath the surface.

What is this? Her thoughts raced, tension coiling in her stomach—a snake poised to strike.

She pushed the Wolf’s hand away, breaking his grip as easily as she would have a child’s. He let her go.

The Wolf nodded, stepping back, the air around them cooling.

His touch, the heat of his hand on her face, lingered. Sorcha wanted to wipe it away, erase the lingering sensation of a strong, callused hand on her face. But she remained motionless, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction beyond what she’d already shown him.

“Have you eaten?” the Wolf asked, moving to a chest and rummaging through it. A black shirt and a pair of pants appeared. He pulled them on without any sign of self-consciousness.

Sorcha shook her head.

“Yes or no,” he said.

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