Page 80 of Ruthless Scoundrel
“Is that an offer?”
“Oh, Zephrom, help me,” she mutters. “If you dare say any more lewd things to me on this journey, I will make you suffer.”
“Maybe I like your kind of suffering,” I say, still holding the pack off her shoulders.
“You won’t like this. I’ll…I’ll…” She pulls down a fortifying breath. “Dosomething.”
I smile. “Your threats are almost as adorable as your scheming.”
She growls in annoyance. “Give me the weight of the pack. I want to carry it.”
I release it all at once and her knees buckle. She grabs onto my arm to hold herself up and then glares at me, the hardest, sternest glare I’ve ever experienced—except perhaps Meianha’s.
“You’re such a bastard,” she says.
“And you’re a little brat who got exactly what she deserved.”
The scent of her shifts almost immediately, that floral essence becoming saltier, and stronger. She’s not just embarrassed but aroused.
“Like being called a brat, do you?” I ask.
“You’re vile,” she whispers.
“Andyou’rethinking about my depravities.”
“I’m done talking to you for today.”
“Fair enough. We don’t need talking for what you want to do.”
She growls again, long and frustrated. I fucking love it. But she doesn’t speak to me again. We walk for hours, taking only two breaks until stopping to make camp before sunset.
We stake our spot near the center of the caravan, farthest from the edges, and danger. Lone bandits and petty thieves will trytheir hand at slitting throats and picking pockets in the farthest tents, and that won’t be us.
The tent Elvandro provided is a decent size, but I still have to bend over at the waist to fit inside. Still, it’s got more room than the raft shelter we’d created, and enough space to lay out the blankets Reina’s pack is holding. I keep our valuables tucked away on my person, and we leave the rest of our things in the tent as we reach the main group around the bonfire.
Meianha had packed us bread, cheese, and dried fish for the road, so I grab a serving for each of us and join Reina on a log not far from the fire. She puts her hands out as if to warm herself, even though it isn’t cold.
“You guessed half right about my magus ability. It’s not just the sun I can steal,” she says, her eyes transfixed on the flames. “Mother always put magus crystals in my rooms. My guards carried them for light instead of torches. They were more efficient, she said, and less dangerous. But she was trying to keep me weak.”
I settle down beside her and lay the napkin containing our dinner half across her lap, and half over mine.
“She was under the impression that I could only gain my power from fire,” she says, taking a delicate bite of cheese. “That was how it first manifested. And since my power always displayed as fire”—she shrugs—“she never thought to have me more closely inspected. Because she denied me a fireplace in my room and so many other things, I would tell her I was cold every morning. She would never give me more clothes, just tell me to harden myself.
“Then I had ample excuse for sunbathing. I was cold. She didn’t let me do anything else—be it read, or practice sports, ride, garden…but sunbathing and gossiping was all right. It was safe. However, that’s how I was connected with the rebellion, through gossip.
“My maid said something one day against the queen that gave me pause. I warned her not to speak that way again, that ears less compassionate than my own might be listening. That was how they knew they could turn me. Use me. I am their weapon now, the only magus in all the kingdom that can hurt her—except maybe one other...” She falls quiet and I hand her more food.
“You’re very brave,” I say.
“No.” She snorts. “I just don’t have any other choice if I want to live.”
A stringed instrument hums into the night, and we look across the fire to the source. A woman with a violin stands from her seat as she pulls the bow across the strings again. Another instrument is plucked off to our left, hitting the same tone as the violin. Then a flute joins off to the right.
The violinist plays a few notes, then repeats them. The guitarist responds by playing a few similar but complementary notes. The flute adds its own wild accompaniment, and then the trio take off, crafting a song.
Reina looks at me with dazzling joy. “Dance with me?”
“Again?” I ask with a sly smile to hide my nerves.
