Page 40 of WarBride

He nods.

“For me?”

In lieu of an answer, he goes back to strapping on his gear, attaching a bracer to his left forearm. I watch him mutely for some moments before finally asking, “Can you kill him?”

“I can.”

The words come without hesitation. But something about the quickness of his response convinces me he is not absolutely certain.

“You’re risking your life,” I say, almost a whisper. “For me.” I catch my breath. Then:“Why?”

The next moment I’m across the room, reaching out to him. I touch his right arm, the one without a bracer yet. The one around which the wedding cord was wound. For an instant I almost believe I feel it there, a hot, constricting snake. In the same instant I could swear I feel a similar pressure and heat on my own forearm. The sensation is gone before I can quite grasp hold of it, so I simply look up into the warlord’s face. There’s so much conflict in his expression—confusion, determination, violence, and more. He doesn’t know the answer to my question. He truly doesn’t. But he’s not going to back down from this fight.

I shake my head. Then, lifting my hand from his arm, I step back. “No,” I say firmly. “You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t put yourself at risk. You don’t owe me this.”

“I vowed to protect you.”

“Skewer your vows!” I take a short, angry step. My foot treads on the edge of my blanket, pulling it down from my shoulders. Rather than yank it back, I let it fall, and stand once more innothing but the filmy gauze gown. “This has gone far beyond any reasonable responsibility of yours. Here.” I stick out my hand, reaching for the twin knives strapped at his thick belt. “Give me one of those. Send me to this Lurodos, and I’ll take care of him myself. I don’t need you to do it for me.”

His stern brow softens, his eyes gleaming with a flash of . . . that better not be amusement! “And where do you think you’ll hide a knife in a gown like that.” His gaze rakes over my form, slow and knowing.

Heat jumps in my veins, but I ignore it. I simply slip one of his knives from its sheath. “That’s my problem,” I say grimly, “not yours. I won’t stand by and let you get yourself killed for my sake. You’ve done enough already.”

“I’m the reason you’re here, remember?”

“Yes, well . . .” I admit begrudgingly, “you were only trying to keep me from having my throat ripped out by those raveners.” I lift my chin, tossing a lock of hair back from my forehead. “You gave me a fighting chance. No one can ask for more than that.” My hand gripping that knife hilt begins to tremble, but I tighten my fingers and brandish it a little higher.

Taar breathes a long sigh. Then he reaches out and, taking hold of my wrist, adjusts my grip so that the balance is better. “Keep it,” he murmurs, his fingers still resting against my skin. “If things go awry, if I do not succeed, you should have a weapon to do what must be done.”

He catches my gaze then, his eyes dark despite the dancing firelight. And I realize he’s not talking about me using the knife on Lurodos. I wish I could fling the blade across the room, as far from me as possible. What horrors await in my second bridegroom’s chambers that death by my own hand would be preferable?

“Thank you, warlord,” I say softly, looking down at the weapon and turning it slowly so that it catches the light. It is alarger knife than the one hidden beneath my pillow last night. The hilt is intricately worked and set with a gold stone. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It is beautiful in a deadly way. Like the man who gave it to me. “I will . . . keep your advice in mind.”

I lift my eyes to him again, surprised to find him still so near, studying me in silence. An impulse to pull his head down and kiss him bubbles up suddenly in my breast. A wild compulsion and a little bit mad, considering we’re poised here on the brink of life and death. But I can’t help it. I know what his lips feel like now, and the idea of never experiencing that feeling again is almost unbearable.

His gaze drops as well, fastening on my mouth. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? “Zylnala,”he murmurs, and reaches for me, his fingers slipping through my hair to the back of my head. I lean toward him, standing up on my toes. My eyes half-close, and my lips part as I draw a last desperate breath—

“Oh, I say, am I interrupting?”

Taar and I spring apart as the tent flap swishes open, and a tall fae man strides into the pavilion as though he owns it. I vaguely remember him from last night: he spoke to Taar in the growling language of the other fae monsters directly after I was auctioned off. His eyes are ice-pale, his hair white but with a sheen of lavender undertone that is quite startling in the firelight. His skin is unexpectedly bronzed, almost honey-toned. It must be glamour, for that combination of coloring could not exist naturally. He radiates beauty and danger, as all the fae do, but of a more refined sort—the sort that will kill you with subtle knives and cruel poisons rather than brutal blows. A dark crown of spikes twists across his brow and looks as though it might bite into his own flesh if he does not take care.

I know at once who this must be—Ruvaen. The Prince of Noxaur, my father’s great enemy.

Quick as thought I raise Taar’s dagger, assuming a more balanced stance. The prince looks me over, taking in my revealing gown, my small stature, my utter humanness. And he laughs. He laughs, gods-damn him, as all men do, mocking me and my futility. I take a lunging step, determined to plunge this blade straight into his eye.

Taar’s hand falls heavily on my shoulder. He speaks in that growling fae language I do not know, though I hear the reprimand in his voice. Prince Ruvaen shakes his head and holds up both hands as though in defense, still laughing. Then he touches his lips before offering me a sweeping bow. “Forgive me, dear Lady Ragnataarthane,” he says, switching deftly to that strange Eledrian tongue that translates itself in my head. “I mean no offense. You really are quite ferocious, and it took me by surprise, you see.”

I grit my teeth. How many lives would I save if I threw off Taar’s grasp and lodged this blade into the prince’s black heart? Would the war finally come to an end? Somehow I doubt it. Some other fae lord would find an excuse to raid our land. There’s plenty more where this one came from. Besides I don’t think Taar’s about to let me slip his hold all that easily.

The prince strides into the room and takes a seat by the fire. “Taar, my friend,” he says, “I see why you like her. I never would have believed it last night, but she’s cleaned up a treat! And that scowl? It would send the very thralls of Ashtarath scrambling back through the Rift in short order. A prize to be sure. Certainly worth dying for.”

“What are you doing here, Ruvaen?” Taar growls, his fingers pinching into my shoulder slightly.

“What?” The prince spreads his arms wide and leans back in his seat, stretching out his legs before the fire and crossing them at the ankle. “Need I a reason to enter my own pavilion? You are the guest here after all, not I. I loaned you this little oasisout of the goodness of my tender heart. All so that you might perform one very specific function, I might add. A function, it would seem, you have failed to perform, although . . .” He slips into his own language again so that I won’t understand him. I understand perfectly well the look he sends gliding up and down my body however. I wish I could bend and pick up the dropped blanket without looking like an absolute fool. Instead I lift my chin and stare the man down coldly.

“Feisty too,” Ruvaen adds, just for my benefit.

Taar responds in Noxaurian, his voice a dangerous growl.

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