Page 46 of The War and Deceit Series omnibus

Someone’s chatty today,I grumble internally as I watch him, his eyes tracking me wearily, as if scanning me for something.

“Why do you care?”

My question seems to take him by surprise. In fact, I surprise myself, but it’s something I need to know.

“I get bored. At least things are different when you’re here.” Truth. I can hear it in his voice, but not the whole truth, he’s holding something back.

Returning to his work, he starts pounding the sword on the anvil, his actions seeming harder, rougher than usual. Frowning, I watch his back as he works, his tension obvious as he takes out his frustrations on the metal. Shaking my head, I grab my scrubbing brush once more as he growls and spits something in a different tongue. The anger in his voice has me jumping to my feet, spinning back around to face him. He hurls his hammer to the floor and I flinch at the loud noise, watching him warily as he whirls around with an unnatural grace.

“Enough,” he growls, his face twisted into a glare as he strides towards me, and for the first time in this last week, I fear for my life. My hands start to shake, but I hold my ground, clenching them into fists at my sides, refusing to back away. I don’t know what I’ve done to upset him, but I won’t die a cowering nobody.

“I had accepted my fate—that I would die in the hands of my enemy, as a traitor to my people.” His voice is quiet as he hisses at me, stalking ever closer. “I had accepted it, untilyoucame along.”

He’s within touching distance when he finally comes to a stop, his feline features twisted with rage as he scans my face.

“Why can’t I get you out of my head? What magic have you woven over me?” Frustration is evident in his tone and I know how hard he’s trying to fight this, thisneedto be close to me. I know this because I’m fighting exactly the same thing. I want to touch him, to be close, to inhale his woodsy scent and roll around in it until it clings to me like a second skin.

“I’m sorry.” Voice breathy, I take a half step forward before I can stop myself. Being this close to him is making it difficult for me to control that need. It’s not a sexual need, but more like he is the other part of my soul I hadn’t realised I was missing. “Do you feel it? The pull?”

“You feel it too?” His words are quick and sharp, like he doesn’t believe me, or doesn’twantto believe me. Cursing in his strange, lilting language, he turns away from me, pacing a few steps before spinning back around to face me. “No, that’s not possible. You’re human.”

I raise my eyebrows at that comment. I know he’s at war with my people, but the disgust that coats his words hurts. It shouldn’t—he’s my mortal enemy, right? But it does hurt, his words wound me. Shaking my head, I push away those thoughts and try to focus on what he’s saying.

“I don’t understand.”

Making a cutting gesture, he points at me, his anger rising once again. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

He already knows I’m a slave, he’s seen my marks. Do I tell him? He hasn’t deserved to hear my story, he’s only treated me like crap. Grayson can dress me in pretty clothes and give me aname, but I will always be a slave for as long as the priests still have the amount of control they do now. Staring at the elf, I realise we both have that in common. Slave. Shaking my head, I decided to tell him, even if it doesn’t change anything, or makes him hate me more.

“My name is Clarissa, but until a week ago, I had no name.”

His body stills, his frown deepening as he tries to understand what I’m saying. “What do you mean?”

“You know that I am—was—a slave.” His eyes run over my body again and I know what he’s thinking—how painfully thin I am and how the guards treat me each evening, like I’m nothing. Reaching over, I push up the cuff of my dress which hides my marks, his eyes darkening with anger when he sees my brands again. He steps forward, reaching out and gently, oh so gently, runs a finger over my Goddess mark. I have to bite back a moan at the sensations his touch sends through me, igniting a part of me that I thought had died years ago. His eyes shoot up to mine as he scents my arousal and he quickly stops touching me, taking a small step back.

Pushing away the disappointment his actions fill me with, I awkwardly raise a hand to my hair and tuck it back behind my ear. I shouldn’t be embarrassed, desire isn’t something to be ashamed of, but the fact that it’s for anelf,a prisoner of war...I move my fingers to the mark he had just been touching, but I only get the pleasant tingling feeling I usually do when I touch it, unlike when Grayson or the elf do.

“One of the high magicians was sent a vision by the Great Mother, our Goddess, and he saved me from being executed. This—” I gesture around us and at the dirty floor. “This is the only way the priests would allow it.”

“Even though your Goddess decreed she wanted you safe through the vision?”

The look he sends me is incredulous, and I just nod my head in agreement. It’s true, while the Mother sent Grayson to save me, the priests should take that as an affirmation that the Goddess wants me around. However, she never specified that I shouldn’t be a slave anymore.

The elf snorts and starts to pace again, watching me as he does, his eyes never leaving me for long. “What did you do to be made a slave?”

Raising my eyebrows at his blunt question, I try to decide if he deserves an answer or not. I want him to trust me, I don’t know why, he’s supposed to be my enemy after all, but I just don’t get that feeling about him. Sure, I don’t particularly like him right now, and he scares me, but we have something in common. We know what it’s like to have nothing, tobenothing.

“I don’t know, I was eight at the time,” I answer with a shrug, my fingers tracing the marks on my arm. “I don’t remember my life before that.”

“Your people made achilda slave?” That familiar anger rises in his features again, showing his disgust at the thought of child slaves, and I have to agree with him. It’s disgusting, but what could someone like me do about it? The elf pauses as he sees something in my face, that strange pull between us almost vibrating with the rage we both feel.

“What did you do to deserve execution?” he demands, and I get the feeling he’s trying to justify why I’m here. I don’t know why he feels this is important, but it’s practically thrumming off him.

“I reached the cut off age.”

There’s a pause after I speak, our gazes locked on each other before he breaks away with a laugh. It’s not a happy laugh, it’s the stunned, incredulous laugh of someone who can’t believe what they just heard.

“And your people call my race uncivilised?”

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