Page 11 of The Dead Saint

Adrian crouched beside her, extending the cup he held.

The scent of cooked vegetables reached her, and it smelled better than anything she could remember. But she hesitated, watching him, too aware of the tension between them.

“Take it,” he said, voice flat and expressionless.

Sorcha shook her head. Even as hungry as she was, she didn’t want to eat what this monster offered. She would rather starve. But it smelled so good, and the ground beneath her was so cold.

He shrugged, setting it beside her and moving to sit a few feet away.

The sun set and the moon rose, the men going silent one by one as the card game stopped and they packed up their camp. Hugh brought more wood for the fire, building it up and taking a place among the others. Adrian remained beside her, the cold cup of soup between them.

Exhaustion took its toll, sleep coming on hard, offering a reprieve from the horror of the day, and she welcomed it.

* * *

Adrian watched the woman sleep. Her brow creased as she mumbled through dreams, twitching, her hand fluttering up and falling back. She didn’t wake, and he didn’t move to wake her. She cried out once, a sharp sound in the night, drawing the attention of the men around the fire. He waved them off, and they dismissed her easily, turning back to the campfire.

The horror of the city hadn’t touched him. But he wondered what had happened to her there to disturb her dreams. The blood on her dress had dried, and there had been a lot of it. He hadn’t ridden into the city, leaving that for the others, but there must have been many other people with her. Other priests and priestesses, people whose place it was to protect the vessel.

He was curious about that—her destructive faith and worship of the dead. What did it take for someone to believe in such things? He had faith in his sword and nothing else.

Exhaustion hung heavy on his shoulders, lodging in his back and making his neck ache. But he couldn’t sleep. Despite the prince’s explicit orders that the woman wasn’t to be touched and must be treated with the utmost respect, Adrian’s men were superstitious. They’d already proven themselves to be more wary of what they didn’t understand than beholden to the prince’s word.

It would be a mistake to leave her unguarded until they’d come to terms with the fact that her life was more valuable than theirs right now.

Chapter Five

Dawn arrived, and frost collected on the trampled earth around them. The tips of her fingers were cold despite the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Half the men had been gone when she’d woken up. The other half were preparing to leave now. Sorcha was surprised the Wolf had let her sleep so long when there was still so much ground to cover to get her to his prince.

He sauntered over and picked up a waterskin from beside the fire, then extended it to Sorcha. She didn’t take it, and he crouched down, holding it out once more. He waited, and someone chuckled nastily behind him.

Sorcha glanced at the man. Hugh. More than anything, she wanted to shut him up.

Sorcha snatched the heavy waterskin and took a sip, the water cool and tasting of earth. When she thrust it back at him, the blanket slipped away, and the sleeve of her dress rucked up to expose a section of her elaborate tattoo. Hurriedly, she smoothed the fabric down, but the Wolf stopped her with a rough hand. She flinched with a gasp, pulling back against his hold but stuck tight.

He stilled, the two of them breathing together, locked in the moment.

Gently, he pushed the sleeve back with one gloved hand, revealing more of the tattoo—detailed and complex, starting just above her wrist and disappearing into the sleeve.

She watched, transfixed, as he traced a line across her skin. A road yet to be traveled, a destination yet to be reached. Each location was carefully detailed, nothing hidden, her skin a map and promise of what could be found at the end of the journey.

“Did your prince tell you about me?” she asked, intensely aware of his grip on her arm.

Who had been the last person to touch her with such gentleness? Ines before the fall of the Citadel gates? And now, this monster with black leather between them.

His dark eyes flashed up to her face. “Yes.”

“How much?” She raised an eyebrow, wanting to remove his hand even as her heart raced with the connection. “Everything?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t think he knows it all.”

“About me or the Saint?” she asked.

“You are one and the same to him,” he said.

“And to you?”

Her words hung between them. He didn’t respond, watching her without emotion.

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