Page 41 of The Dead Saint

“Oh,” Sorcha said, not sure what other response she could give.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had that realization herself already and was more than aware the prince’s sentiment wouldn’t last forever.

“Come,” Toren said, gesturing toward Adrian’s tent—her tent. “I spent the last ten minutes wandering around camp. I have some things for you.”

Sorcha fell into step beside the woman, shooting curious glances her way. Toren had a short dagger belted at her hip, but that was the only weapon Sorcha could see. Her clothes were clean and well taken care of, not at all what Sorcha would expect from a woman who had been traveling with the Horde for an extended period of time.

“They say you’ve bewitched him,” Toren said, raising an eyebrow. “Have you?”

Sorcha laughed and crossed her arms, trying to keep herself from breaking apart. “How could I bewitch the prince? I’ve spoken to him once.”

“No.” Toren furrowed her brows, confusion crossing her face. “Not the prince. The Wolf.”

Sorcha opened her mouth and then shut it. Adrian’s banner came into view, rippling in the lazy breeze that shifted the smoke from the fires. They wove through the remaining tents, large circular constructions, similar to the ones she’d seen at the main encampment when he’d taken her from the Golden Citadel.

The fire in the circle of tents was unattended, though it burned as if fresh logs had been added moments before. Sorcha glanced around and saw two men, possibly one of whom had been sent to follow her, coming from two tents behind them.

Toren reached Adrian’s tent and went in ahead of Sorcha, holding the flap back.

“Have you enchanted the Wolf?” Toren asked again.

“No?”

A question, not a statement as Sorcha had intended it to be. And beneath the doubt was a growing suspicion—that Adrian moved through the camp always searching for her face. Not because he’d been charged with her safekeeping but because something had changed between them in the Silvas.

Sorcha lifted her chin, meeting Toren’s curiosity. But the woman shrugged, moving past her toward the center of the tent where a crimson trunk sat in the light—new and an obvious gift from the prince. Toren glanced at the low cot piled with furs where Sorcha slept, then to the opposite spot where Adrian slept at night.

“He’s told the camp to leave you alone, instructed his men to guard you. Not only on the prince’s command but his own.” Toren’s eyebrows went up, and she tilted her head to the side. “These men have been with him from the start. They’ll be there at the end as well. But you won’t be. I wouldn’t trust them to keep you safe. They’ll protect him from anything and everything, including you.”

“I’m not dangerous,” Sorcha said, watching as the woman lifted the trunk lid and removed crimson clothes—riding trousers and gowns meant for travel. These were rougher and sturdier than the ones he’d gifted her in the Traveling City.

“Aren’t you? But you’ve already said no.” Toren came toward her carrying a high-necked dress of heavy cotton lined with a shade of red so dark it was almost black. She held it up in front of Sorcha, gauging the size. “What men find dangerous about women is everything. Even if you were not an oracle or child of the Saint, they would find you dangerous.”

“Why?” Sorcha whispered, unable to stop the question, her mind racing.

“Because you’ve caught the attention of a man who has lusted for nothing but blood all his life.” Toren studied Sorcha, looking from the dress to her face. “This is a good color for you. I assume you don’t require help dressing?”

“No,” Sorcha said.

“I will have a bath prepared, and you’ll be able to change into something clean. You won’t be here with us very long, but as long as you are, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”

“You have bathing tubs here?” Sorcha couldn’t disguise the surprise and excitement in her voice.

“It’s a glorified bucket,” Toren said with a laugh. “But yes, I’ll have it sent over soon. Are you hungry?”

“Very.” Sorcha’s stomach rumbled and she pressed her hands to her abdomen.

“I’ll have food sent over as well.”

“Thank you,” Sorcha said, emotion collecting in her throat and behind her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Toren said, gesturing to her right in a vague way. “If you need anything, I’m a few rows away. The banner at our tent is green and blue.”

“You have a banner too?” Sorcha had only seen a few in this camp. From what she’d been able to discern, it meant a soldier of some kind of rank, more than a foot soldier.

“Yes.” Toren nodded. “My husband will fight in the morning with the others. He’s honorable and stands beside his men in battle. Sometimes, I go with him. But not this time.”

“What’s different about this time?” Sorcha asked, curious.

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