Page 18 of White Horse Black Nights

What the hell do the two of them have to laugh about, worms?

My thoughts keep chewing over the abuse those Sisters doled out on her. For fuckingyears. It shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did to spot the bruises. That’s what I get for trying to be a gentleman and not gawk at her naked body. I should have demanded to inspect every inch of her before we left Bremcote. Fuck, how I’d like to get my hands around those old Sisters’ necks. Such hypocrites, claiming to be acolytes of Immortal Iyre. Me? I’ve never wanted anything to do with the Red Church. In name, the church upholds the worship of the old gods, spreading hope that they’ll reawaken. In reality, the church’s Grand Cleric is just the same scheming asshole as every other power-hungry ruler. King Joruun, in his palace in Old Coros, may be the official sovereign of Astagnon, but he’s getting old. And you can bet the Red Church is crouched like a fox, ready to pounce as soon as he dies and a power vacuum opens.

After the river crossing at Polybridge, I feel at ease enough to allow a stop at an inn for a midday meal. I’ve been running Sabine ragged, anxious to get her to Duren, and she deserves to rest her ass on a chair for once.

The Stargazer Inn, named for Immortal Thracia, Goddess of Night, is barely more than a few boards slapped together, but there’s a spacious common room with a large fire in the hearth warming a soup kettle. One side of the common room holds shelves with staples for purchase—rope, tin pots, flour sacks. Wooden tables span the other side, occupied by a few patrons: two single men, a young couple with a baby.

“Can I help . . .oh!”

A white-haired innkeeper stops short in her boots at the sight of Sabine dressed only in her flowing hair.

“A meal, madam,” I order sharply, gesturing toward the kettle. “We’ll have a bowl of that soup for Lord Rian Valvere’s new bride.”

I allow the two men to take a brief look at Sabine—it’s only human nature—before extending a warning growl that has them both immediately fascinated by the bottoms of their tankards.

Satisfied no one is going to bother us, I drag out a chair and jerk my head toward it. “Sit.”

Sabine collects her curtain of hair in front of her as she slips into the seat. The innkeeper brings two bowls of soup, half a warm loaf of bread, and ale.

“Her horse is hitched outside,” I say. “Make sure it’s fed and watered.”

“Yes, sir.” The elderly woman scurries to the kitchen, where I hear her giving orders to someone.

As a chicken wanders in through the open back door, pecking at crumbs under our table, I relax as much as I dare. Being indoors makes me nervous, but something about this humble place, with its sturdy earthenware pitchers and cozy tallow lamps, calms Sabine’s pulse.

And that, in turn, relaxes me.

As I tear into the bread, I watch her spoon a hunk of potato toward her mouth, only to pause, looked fixedly at the chicken, and then offer it the morsel instead.

My toe taps anxiously under the table. Four days on the road now, and she still hasn’t asked about Lord Rian or Sorsha Hall. That means that even after my theatrics with the rope, she still plans on never reaching Duren.

I sigh.Foolish girl.

Trying to sway her is useless, if she has her heart set on escape. I suspect she will have to learn her lesson the hard way, but I find myself piping up to try to steer her away from disaster.

“You’ll be a good match,” I say gruffly. “You and Lord Rian.”

She gives a scoffing laugh as though she doubts my words but is willing to humor me. “What makes you say that?”

I shrug. “You’re clever. You’re observant. Lord Rian will like you.”

“I can match his wit at his mind games, you mean?”

I hesitate.Oh, little violet.No one matches Lord Rian at his games.But that’s a lesson for her to learn another day.

At my pause, mischief sparkles in her eyes. “Wolf, you came dangerously close to complimenting me just now, did you know that?”

A silence moves in between us. For four days, we’ve passed long hours at each other’s sides, and grown familiar with each other’s habits, but we’ve spoken only when necessary, and about practical matters. This hint of banter throws me. For my whole life, I’ve been in the company of other men. First in the fighting rings, then in the army barracks, and now in the hunting regiment. I’m used to gruff ribbing, but this is different.

Sabine and I aren’t friends. We never will be. Every part of her belongs to someone else—even her quips.

My attention drops to my tankard as I try to steer the conversation back to Rian. “You’ll find things to like about Lord Rian, too. He’s twenty-eight years old. Your father could have sold you to a man twice his age. He’s known for his physical prowess and his shrewd dealings. Every woman in Duren would kill to wear his ring, probably even in all of Astagnon. But he chose you.”

Sabine takes her time swallowing a few bites of soup. “So because he’s young and attractive, I should be pleased that I was bought without being consulted on the matter?” Her amicable tone has soured.

I drink deeply from my tankard, the sour ale splashing down my throat to settle uneasily in my belly. I wipe my mouth with the back of one hand. “He’s richer than sin, too. Don’t tell me that doesn’t matter.”

She scoffs, shaking her head like I can’t possibly understand, and returns to the chicken, presumably for better conversation.

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