Page 16 of The Dead Saint

“No,” she said, an edge of irritation slipping into her tone.

The Wolf stepped to the tent flap, pushing it back and calling to someone unseen beyond the opening.

“Food and more hot water.” He glanced back at her, going over her grubby clothes and torn slippers. “And a change of clothes for the woman.”

The person beyond the tent murmured something she couldn’t understand. A different language she hadn’t heard spoken among his men yet.

Then the tent flap fell back into the place and the Wolf moved past her to the desk.

“Food and water aren’t going to change my mind about you.”

He glanced at her, something like amusement flashing in his gaze. “I would never expect it to.”

“I refuse to eat,” she said, anger boiling, overriding the small amount of self-preservation she’d displayed so far. “Your prince won’t get the satisfaction.”

The Wolf was in front of her before she finished speaking, pulling her up and forcing her chin up until their eyes locked. When he spoke, it was in a whisper, the tone so at odds with the strength in his grip.

“You will eat.” His eyes roved over her face, dark gaze searching, and a line formed between his brows. “I will accept nothing else from you.”

“Compliance,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Surrender.”

Sorcha opened her mouth, struggling to find words, caught in his eyes. A corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was enjoying her discomfort. She clamped her lips shut, biting the inside of her cheek. He released her, letting her stumble back into the folding chair. She sat down hard and remained there, more aware of where he’d touched her than her surroundings. She watched the fire as he added more oil and went back to his maps.

Soon, the water and food arrived—another jug placed on the stand by an old woman who shot Sorcha a curious look out of pale gray eyes. The food—flat bread and roasted meat—was placed on the desk by one of the men she’d seen around the camp the previous night. But he didn’t look at Sorcha. He didn’t need to for her to feel his hatred.

Without speaking to her, the Wolf took the rough wooden plate and held it out to her.

Surrender. But what kind?

She stood and reached out without taking another step toward him.

The Wolf moved the plate out of reach. “What’s your name?”

“I won’t?—”

“If you prefer to be only an object, I won’t refuse you that right. Vessel.”

She opened her mouth, ready to tell him that was fine. But her tongue betrayed her. “Sorcha.”

He extended the plate and waited as she took a piece of bread from it.

“Don’t you want to know my name?” he asked, black eyes on her face, watching as she put a piece of bread in her mouth.

“I don’t need to know anything more about you,” she said, half turning away, tearing the warm bread into chunks as she sat. “I know enough.”

“Do you?”

She left his question there, unanswered and ignored.

Chapter Seven

“There’s a problem.”

Sorcha recognized the voice. Revenant, the Wolf’s second-in-command. It hadn’t taken her long to figure it out. The strange man had come and gone several times, once carrying a carefully sealed letter and another time to speak softly in a language she couldn’t understand.

Now the fire in the brazier was out, and the overcast night sky glimpsed through the opening in the tent. It was late, the noise of the camp had died down, and a strange sense of calm had overtaken the place.

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