Page 45 of Rogue Elves of Ardani

She was terrifying, and she had done something unforgivable to him, but it was disturbingly easy to be grateful for her presence.

To his utter surprise, he realized that he was hoping she wouldn’t die—for reasons that had nothing to do with the binding.

Reluctantly pulling her a little closer, he decided to allow himself the luxury of pretending she was someone who cared for him. Someone he wanted to protect.

Really, it wasn’t that difficult to pretend.

Chapter 12

She awoke to cold, and warmth. Daylight filtered through her eyelids. Freezing air numbed her face.

And then she felt the large, warm body behind her. Arms enclosing her. She stiffened, panicked. She opened her eyes to find a pair of dark, bluish hands resting loosely over hers, and relaxed a little.

They were huddled in a small pile of blankets and clothes, under brush. Vaara was curled against her, asleep. Soft breath on the back of her neck sent a shiver up her spine.

Her head was pounding. Whatever Garros had given her had left her with a hangover. Slowly, the events of the previous night came back to her.

She’d watched Vaara fight. During her own struggle with Garros, she’d seen him taking them down one by one. It was incredible—beating seven men on his own, with hardly a scratch to show for it. She’d never imagined he’d be so effective in a fight. He’d surpassed all her expectations.

She’d thought her fate had been sealed as soon as Garros had grabbed her—but somehow he’d done the impossible, and she was still here. To even imagine what might have happened to her if he hadn’t been there made her shudder.

She started to get up, then hesitated.

She relaxed against his chest, soaking in the warmth and breadth of him and the weight of his arm over her.

The corners of her mouth were pulling down. Guilt, ever-present, made her stomach churn. Was it wrong for her to enjoy the feeling of another person’s arms around her, just for the simple physical comfort of it, even if the person providing it despised her?

Yes, definitely.

“Vaara?” she said. Her voice creaked.

There was a pause, then he twitched. Another pause, and then his hands jerked away from hers. He pulled his arm out from under her and unceremoniously sat up, dumping her to the ground.

Crow shot him a glare. He looked her over impassively.

“You’re not dead,” he commented.

“It appears not.” Her voice was still a croak. She raised a hand to her throat, gingerly touching the painful line of rope burn and bruising there. She sat up, taking inventory of herself. She couldn’t stop shivering. Her boots were damp, and her toes felt frozen. She tried to wriggle them, and they slowly responded. “How long was I unconscious?”

He looked up toward the sun, squinting. “A few hours. The sun hasn’t been up long.”

“What happened?”

He listed off the events in a characteristically concise fashion. “I killed all your friends. Brought you away from their camp. It got cold.”

“They’re not my friends. Was that not obvious?” She shivered and started to climb to her feet, then stopped when her head swam.

“This is why you hide your race?” Vaara asked.

She looked up at him, solemn. “Yes.”

He looked thoughtful, but didn’t say anything else. He crawled out from under their shelter and stood in the snow outside, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he waited for her. He had a sword in a scabbard at his hip now, she noticed. He must have been happy about that.

When she’d packed everything up, she tried to shoulder the pack, and nearly swooned under it. She held it out to Vaara instead. “Carry this.”

“Of course, mistress.”

She bristled. “I told you not to call me that.”

---