Page 86 of An Empress of Earth & Darkness

When she finally had the courage to look up, Artem Stryker was holding out his metal flask of water. The hand that offered it to her had a rose inked into it.

“You need that,” she refused, tearing her eyes away from a hand that knew her body well. “I will be fine.”

“I will find another source when we get to Skyelir; the place is brimming with fresh water.” He urged her to take it again. “I want you to drink it.”

His handsome face, strong and fierce, looked down on her with eyes golden like the sun.

With a trembling hand, she cursed inwardly and reached out to take it from him. Placing the cool steel to her lips, she drank, and the freezing liquid finally seemed to settle her raging stomach and burning throat. Taking a few breaths as she sagged against the sand, she uttered, “Thank you.”

Artem grinned. “Can the princess wolf not handle a portal?”

One of the warrior’s inked hands came down—the one that bore a skull—as he offered to help pull her up. Fighting against her pride, she slapped her hand into his, and he hoisted her off the ground.

His infuriatingly perfect eyebrow ventured upwards. “You good?”

She nodded, but when she closed her eyes, all she could see was Waylen’s face as he scorned her last night.

In my eyes, you are a lost cause. Just like her.

Her brother’s words carved another slash in her heart.

Artem’s brow pulled down. “No evil glare? No snide remark? No threat to chop off my balls for calling you princess?”

When she looked up at him, the glow of the sun burned around his back and illuminated the colours of his tattoos. It filled his skin with a thousand pictures of lives that had been before him and traditions he believed in. His russet hair was lighter in the sun, and it sat neatly atop his head, short and tidy. His tunic hugged his ridiculous body, and the steel littering his belt was a sign of how dangerous he could be. He was the chief commander’s son, and the crest of his clan sat on his chest.

Her heart’s wounds bled out a little more as she took him in.

He was…otherworldly.

His expression soon morphed into a concerned one. There was hardly ever silence between them, and the broken part of her hungered for that normality. Her turmoil was obvious on her face for him to see, and in this moment, as the sea breeze pulled at her hair and the sun shone on him, she didn’t care if her sorrow was laid bare.

She couldn’t hide it, not when she felt the snake of vulnerability coil around her throat and choke her.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

He somehow knew.

She inhaled to speak but no words came out, Only the tears that she wanted to hold back so desperately. She would never in her wildest dreams have wanted Artem to see this side of her. She took two steps back. Her legs shook and she wobbled in the sand.

No, she would not feel this.

She would not feel anything.

She couldn’t do this.

And you will probably end up fucking one of them and having one of their bastard children right before they marry their witching wife.

“Breighly…” Artem caught her wrist and searched for answers across her face. “What is wrong? What happened? I can feel…something.”

“Stop!” she cut in.

Roman was the only one who knew when she was on a downward spiral into the pit of self-hate. Everyone else saw her as someone who was so confident and fearless, but she had her moments of weakness. And Artem Stryker had just witnessed one of them.

Fuck!

Breighly managed to shake her head and tried to pull back her wrist from his warm grip.

“Something has.” He pulled her closer, and one of his hands found her shoulder. “I have never seen you like this. You’re shaking.”

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