Page 3 of White Horse Black Nights

Beside me, Suri’s hand trails to her collar as she appreciatively remarks, “He’s certainlylarge, isn’t he?”

I snort. A married woman can’t say aloud that anyone but her husband is a dark god of a man.

“I wouldn’t know,” I say flatly. “There weren’t exactly a lot of men traipsing through the convent.”

I see movement in the manor’s front windows—a gaggle of maids is also ogling Rian’s guard from inside the house.

“His name is Wolf Bowborn,” Suri whispers conspiratorially. “One of our family’s messengers knew of him when we lived in Buckwen. He’s served the Valvere family since he was an orphaned boy. Even as a child, he made his way with his fists in the combat games. The Valvere family heard about his godkiss, brought him on as a hunter, and renamed him a Bowborn.”

A child in the combat games? I’m certain that isn’t legal, but I’d be naive to think such things don’t happen.

The wind changes, causing my robe to flutter around my thighs. My skin erupts in gooseflesh as I wrangle the silk back into place.

Wolf Bowborn’s head suddenly jerks toward me as whatever words he was about to say to my father are lost. He sniffs the air, sharp and sampling, and then his gaze targets me.

It’s the first time he’s looked directly at me, and with my legs bare up to my thighs, I expect him to leer. But that isn’t the look he gives me. His eyes run down my length like I’m a filly at auction, and he wants to gauge how much trouble I’ll be.

I think I’d prefer a leer, all things considered.

“He’s godkissed?” I ask, surprised.

Suri nods. “Heightened senses, people say. That’s how he made his name in the fights, and now, as a hunter.” Her gaze lowers to my own godkissed birthmark on my breastbone, half hidden by the robe’s folds. “The Valveres like to surround themselves with godkissed people.”

Feeling self-conscious, I close the robe tighter so it hides my mark completely. The fae gods may be sleeping, but threads of their magic remain in a few of us, who are called the godkissed. We are gifted with talents beyond the bounds of human ability. No one knows who the gods will bless from within their slumbering dreams, though magic does have a slight tendency to run in a family. Not in mine, however—neither of my parents were godkissed. It is only once a baby is born, with the birthmark or not, that the gods’ favor is revealed. And only many years later that the magical nature of their ability manifests.

Suri goes back to eyeing Wolf like a decadent dessert, and I half expect her to lick her lips. With the face of an angel on a beast’s body, it feels like a crime for the gods to have given someone so brutish such beauty.

Despite my wariness, my curiosity gets the best of me. My hand goes to a loose lock of hair that’s slipped out of my braid, twisting it around my little finger. For the last twelve years, I’ve barely seen a man. The convent was run by elderly women who swore a vow of chastity, so they rarely even spoke of men.

Are all males this . . . impressive?

My throat bobs with a hard swallow.

Wolf’s head turns sharply toward me again, and I gape.

Did hehearme gulp?

He says a few final words to my father and then strides across the courtyard in my direction. I feel myself shrinking despite my resolve to stand tall. He moves with a sort of heavy grace, though he holds one shoulder stiffly, as though an old injury still gives him trouble. His boots come to a squelching stop in the mud a pace away from me.

“Lady Sabine.” His voice rumbles like rough stones. “Lord Rian sent me to escort you to Duren. It’s an easy road, but given the nature of the ride, I anticipate we might have trouble. Obey my commands, and I will ensure your safety.”

Nature of the ride.He means the fact that I’ll be paraded around bare as a babe in the name of some sleeping god who couldn’t care less.

His eyes bore into me, and my jaw clamps in a feckless attempt to tame my anger. Obey him? He’s a stranger, and yet he thinks I’m his to command?

Overhead, the clouds shift, and a dark shadow swallows us.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been told to obey. I was taught obedience at the end of a heavy rod in the convent.Eyes down. Lips silent. Thoughts on the Immortal Iyre. Matron White’s sadistic voice still rings in my head like those damnable church bells.

Distracted, I slide my middle finger along the base of my ribs. They’re still tender, not yet fully healed.

A songbird swoops down from the rooftop to alight on my shoulder. It’s a nuthatch. As tiny as a plum with soft gray wings and a black cap of feathers.

Heart, it whispers to me.Take heart.

At its gentle reassurance, I remember to breathe.

Thank you, little one,I speak back in my thoughts, knowing it can hear them as clearly as I could ascertain its message in my own mind.

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