Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SOFT CRUNCH OF snow beneath boots is the only sound disturbing the silence of the forest. Arms folded tightly against the cold, I glance back again at the brooding stormcloud walking behind me.

“Are you normally this chivalrous?” I bite out through chattering teeth, stepping over a fallen branch. My soaked clothing clings to my body in an icy skintight layer. “Making me walk in front.”

“I won’t let the rebels hurt you.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about. I don’t like you behind me.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then—“I don’t need the element of surprise to overpower you. It would make no difference if I walked ahead.”

Arrogant ass.

I walk faster. Not that it matters. His long strides eat up my own.

“Wait,” he says. When I turn, he’s examining a small tree.

Or rather, what’s left of it.

A jagged break splits the trunk in half, its needled branches drooping on either side.

Zevayr levels an accusing glare at me.

“What?” Shivering, I cross my arms tighter, chin tilted up.

“Look.” He points to the center of the tree—where the bark splits, there’s a thick, twisted column of ice, as if water had shot up through the trunk and then frozen until it cracked in half.

Reluctantly, I meet his flinty eyes.

“A waterwielder did this,” he says casually.

I don’t respond.

“You don’t know of any waterwielders that might have followed us, do you? The captain of the Tundrayni royal guard, perhaps?” His smile is cruel and sharp and colder than the snow around us.

No. Daak wouldn’t have been so reckless.

“Not that I know of.”

He stares at me for several heartbeats, his expression unreadable. I try not to fidget beneath his stare, but Tides, it’s unnerving.

“Seriously?” I snap, arms crossed. “You think I sent Daak after you? Maybe I should’ve.”

He barely grunts in response, before striding away so fast I’m forced to jog to catch up.

Back at the clearing where the hulking brute pinned me to the ground, there are two satchels tucked against a tree. I didn’t notice them before—probably because I was preoccupied with escaping him. He plucks one off the ground and hands it to me.

It’s one of my bags. He must’ve retrieved it from the battle site before tying me up and lugging me through the forest. How considerate.

“Change out of your wet clothes before you freeze to death.”

The command in his tone grates at me, and I’m tempted to refuse out of sheer spite. But I’ve already been shivering for far too long as it is, and I don’t want to die out here.

With shaking fingers, I open the satchel—all my belongings are jumbled. Of course, the asshole rifled through them. A wave of fresh irritation wells inside me.

“You went through my things.”

Zevayr doesn’t flinch. “I had to.”

“And here I thought I had a shred of dignity left. Silly me.” I laugh, cold and bitter.

He lifts a brow, utterly unbothered. “Happy to strip that from you too, if you like.”

My fingers curl tighter around the bundle in my arms. Heat prickles beneath my skin. My handprint on his face has faded, and I’m tempted to slap him again and again until it’s permanently tattooed onto his skin.

He’s smug. He’s so tidesdamned smug. Like every violation is just another thing I’m supposed to thank him for. I square my shoulders and glare at him, fire rising in my chest despite the cold.

“I’m not changing with you here,” I grit out. My voice is low, dangerous. I clutch my clean clothing to my chest like armor, daring him to challenge me.

I wait for a smart retort, a cruel smile, but instead he sighs and makes a big show of turning around and taking a few steps away, as if that’s supposed to give me comfort. With a muttered curse, I duck behind a tree and peel off my damp clothing. The cold air hits my bare skin like a slap, and I rush to put on the dry wool leggings and thick tunic. My boots are waterproof, so thankfully, my socks are still dry.

When I emerge, clothes dry and hackles raised, Zevayr’s back is still turned, but his arms are crossed, fingers drumming an impatient pattern on his bicep.

I hate him.

As if sensing my violent thoughts, he turns, raking his gaze over me. I do the same: his clothes appear dry—leather pants and a black long-sleeved shirt beneath a thick vest, brimming with weapons. I eye his cloak with envy—thick, soft fur on one side, supple leather on the other. He must be so warm.

“Are we going to be civil?” he asks, brow arched.

I nearly laugh. “Depends. Are you going to be an ass?” I hurl my wet bundled clothes at his feet. He rolls his eyes.

“What do we do now, oh great commander?” I snap.

He looks unimpressed. “All my men are dead. The rebels knew exactly where we were and how many soldiers I had.”

I narrow my eyes. “You don’t still think I had something to do with that, do you?”

A beat.

“No. I believe you.”

“Finally. Some progress.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “We’re not too far from the palace. We can make it back within a day, regroup, get supplies—”

“We’re not going back to the palace.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You expect me to walk into the Tundrayni capital with no soldiers? They’ll impale me with ice spears before I reach the gate.”

“You keep forgetting—there’s a ceasefire in place. That only—”

“—I have broken,” he interjects. A muscle feathers in his jaw. “So you’ve reminded me. Several times. The ceasefire is shaky enough as it is. The moment I show up alone, it’ll be forgotten.”

“Fine. Do what you want. I’ll go back myself.”

“And if the rebels catch you?”

“That’s not your problem.”

“You’re betrothed to my brother. You are my problem.”

“Oh, now you remember?” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “You seemed to forget that little fact when you tied me up and manhandled me.”

He flinches—just barely—but his gaze drops to my raw wrists.

“Look,” he says quietly. “It’s dangerous out there. I can’t let you go alone. Believe it or not, I don’t actually want you harmed.” I scoff. He presses on, “And if anything happens to you, your father could blame me and attack Arbinj.”

Ah, there it is. At least he’s honest about his real concern. Retaliation.

Frustration curls hot beneath my skin. “What do you propose, then? You won’t go with me. You won’t let me go alone. Should we just pitch a tent and freeze to death?”

“We travel to Arbinj together. Where you’ll marry my brother. As planned.”

I gape at him. He can’t be serious. “That’ll take weeks on foot! Over a month, even. We don’t have the supplies.” I can barely stand to be around him, and I’ve only known him for a few short hours—and I was unconscious through most of it.

“Definitely over a month,” he says. “You’ll slow us down.”

I want to argue with him. No, actually, I want to throttle him. Him and his stupid chiseled face.

“This is madness,” I grit out. “You’ll be safe in Tundrayn. You’re under my protection.”

The insufferable asshole smirks, as if it’s amusing that he’d ever need my protection. “I appreciate that, Mayah.” I flinch. “Truly. But the answer is no.”

By the Tides. When I awoke this morning for my betrothal ceremony, never in ten thousand years would I have guessed I’d be bickering with the infamous Dark Commander in the middle of the tidescursed forest.

I glance sideways at the dense, snow-covered trees.

“Don’t even think about it,” Zevayr rumbles. Two large strides erase the distance between us. “I’ll catch you in seconds and drag you back. We’ll have wasted even more precious time.”

Alarm bells gong violently in my mind at the thought of being alone with him for weeks in the wilderness.

But I don’t see what other choice I have.

“Fine,” I grit out. “What next?”

“We keep walking ‘til nightfall. Tomorrow, we’ll keep going. There’s an Arbinji base near the border.” He walks away, as if his word is law. “The rebels might still be close. Skies, you’ve been shouting enough to lead them straight to us.”

He doesn’t even look back, just expects me to follow.

I do. Begrudgingly.

“Maybe next time, don’t call down a storm just because you’re cranky,” I mutter. “Giant thunderclouds make it very obvious that there’s an insufferable stormwielder nearby.”

He doesn’t deign to respond.

I hate him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

TRUE TO HIS WORD, Zevayr doesn’t stop until it’s so dark, visibility becomes an issue. After I trip over a snaking root for the third time, he looses a deep sigh and starts preparing a makeshift camp.

From his satchel, he retrieves a thick blanket and lays it over the snow. The blanket has barely settled when I plop down, eager to rest my aching legs. He offers me dried meat and a small pouch of nuts, and I tear into the tough, salty strip before swallowing it down like it’s roasted seal meat.

“Do you think we were followed?” I ask between bites, eyeing him warily as he sits across from me to eat his own portion.

“Maybe.” We switched directions often, but footprints in the snow are difficult to conceal. “We’ll cover more ground tomorrow.”

I nod absently, huddling into myself. Now that my body is still, the cold permeates my idle bones. I rub my palms together, blowing hot air over my frigid fingertips.

Zevayr’s eyes snag on my wrists again. The bruises have darkened in the past few hours—angry, thick purple bracelets, stark against my pale skin. His lips press into a grim line.

“Can you heal those?” he asks quietly, nodding toward my wrists.

I’m tempted to lie. I rather like the flicker of guilt that crosses his face each time his gaze lands on the raw skin.

But they do sting. And I’ve never had much patience for pain. One of the perks of being a healer, I suppose. Even the tiniest of aches are healed away.

And now that there’s food in my belly, I’m strong enough to heal the abrasions without worrying about draining my reserves.

In a blink, my hands glow white, and I press my fingers first to one wrist, then the other. Heat hums beneath my skin, and the bruises vanish like smoke.

When I look up, Zevayr is watching me, wide-eyed. Or, at least, one eye is wide—the other’s still an angry, swollen mess.

I sigh. I know I’ll regret this.

“I’ll heal you.” Deep breath. “In exchange for a truce. As long as you promise not to break it within seconds.”

A muscle pulses in his jaw. He studies me like I might bite.

Then—slowly—he nods.

I shift closer, kneeling before him, power already pooling in my palms. For a beat, I hesitate—I don’t want to touch him. But his injuries look painful, and my healer’s training supersedes any hatred I harbor for him.

Gently, I press my hands to the bare skin of his neck, trying my best to ignore the faint scratch of his stubble against my palms.

“Not trying to strangle me, are you?” he mutters.

I ignore him, focusing instead on sensing his injuries. Despite the poor state of his face, he’s relatively unharmed—except for a contusion on his thigh, so large I’m shocked he can walk without limping.

First, I heal his swollen eye, then the other cuts and bruises marring his face. I even heal his swollen nose from where I headbutted him. Within minutes, his face returns to its normal, handsome state.

He is handsome. Objectively. Irritatingly.

Doesn’t mean I hate him any less.

With his face healed, I’m left with a dilemma.

To heal his leg, I need contact with his skin. Which means asking him to take off his pants. I really do not want to do that.

Or I could keep touching his neck and channel my power through his entire body until I reach his leg. Messy. Draining. But possible.

I bite my lip. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering a second too long.

That decides it.

I return my palms to his neck.

Power hums from my hands, flowing through his muscles, bones, tissue. Every battered, aching inch of him.

He better remember this next time he thinks about tying me up.

When my power hits his leg, I focus—soothing the inflammation, mending the damage. When I draw back, a quiet gasp escapes me. My limbs are heavy, my head light.

Zevayr studies me with narrowed eyes. “That drained you.”

Not a question.

He’s right. My reserves are low, and between the battle, travel, hunger, and now this, I’m running on fumes.

“Thank you,” he adds quietly.

I blink. Did he just—?

“Eat another piece of jerky. Then, sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

I’m already lying down on the far side of the blanket before he finishes the sentence.

It feels like I’ve just closed my eyes when he’s shaking me awake.

“Mayah,” he whispers. I ignore him. “Mayah.” Louder. “You’re shivering. Come sleep beside me.”

That gets my attention.

My eyes snap open, and I glare into the darkness.

“Absolutely … not.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not getting … anywhere … near … you.”

“Your teeth are literally chattering. Do you want to freeze to death? Or did they skip basic survival training at your precious palace?”

“I—I don’t…” I try to argue, but my voice stutters with every word.

“Lightning strike me,” he swears under his breath.

Then, before I can blink, he scoops me up and drags me to his side of the blanket. His muscled arms wrap around me like a furnace, and he drapes his heavy cloak over us both. My frozen nose presses against his chest, and—Tides drown me—he’s so warm.

His heat seeps into me like a slow, treacherous tide. Unbidden, a soft moan slips free.

I hate that it feels good.

I hate that it feels safe.

I am anything but safe with him. I can’t let myself forget that.

“You promised … not to … touch me,” I grumble, voice thick with exhaustion. He smells like smoke and pine.

“I take it back. I won’t touch you unless you’re about to die of your own idiocy.”

I hate him. I really do.

I’m about to say as much, but a yawn betrays me.

“Can’t have the princess of Tundrayn dying on my watch,” he murmurs.

“You said I was the princess of nothing,” I whisper into the heat of his chest.

I don’t hear if he replies. Sleep swallows the rest.

CHAPTER NINE

“YOU’RE THE PRINCESS OF nothing.” It’s a threat gritted out through clenched teeth. I can taste the rage on his breath when —

A groggy sigh escapes me. My bed is hard—strangely hard—beneath my back. What time is it? By the Tides, if I’m late for another council meeting, Father will—

“Did you get enough beauty sleep, Princess?” a deep voice drawls.

Tides drown me.

My blood turns to ice as yesterday’s events crash through my mind like a raging tidal wave. I yank his cloak off my face, squinting against the onslaught of sunlight.

Zevayr’s leaning against a nearby tree, arms crossed over his broad chest, glaring at me.

“I’ve been awake for hours,” he adds drily. “Hurry up and eat.” He jerks his head toward the edge of the blanket where he’s laid out dried meat and a handful of nuts. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

With slow movements, I throw off the cloak completely and stand.

“You could have woken me,” I snap, smoothing out my tunic.

His gaze rakes me from head to toe, and I try not to shiver under his intense scrutiny. Tides, I’d slept in his arms last night. My cheeks heat, and I whirl and storm through the trees before he sees the damning redness on my face.

Arms crossed against the frigid morning air, I find a suitable spot far enough away from camp to relieve myself.

I might have frozen to death if he hadn’t noticed—and forced me to share his body heat. The thought twists something deep in my gut.

Obviously he needs me alive.

That’s all it is. I’m betrothed to his brother.

I scrub clean snow over my face, then rinse out my mouth, hoping the jarring cold will settle my racing heart.

By the time I return to camp, Zevayr is pacing the clearing, raking a violent hand through his hair. My steps must be louder than I think, because even from a distance he whirls toward me—brows drawn tight, teeth bared and ready to deliver another cutting remark.

He doesn’t disappoint.

“At the risk of repeating myself, I ask again, did they not teach you basic survival skills in Tundrayn?”

“What are you talking about?” I bite out. I wring my hands together because otherwise I’ll strangle him.

“You spent ages in the woods,” he snarls. “What if something happened? What if more rebels are nearby? I didn’t save your ass from freezing just so you can keep endangering yourself.”

“Why didn’t you just come find me, then?”

“I was about to. I wasn’t sure if you’d be … indecent.”

I roll my eyes, turning to hide my flush. I refuse to be drawn into another bickering match with him. I scoop up the food he left out.

“Let’s go, then. I’ll eat as we walk.”

Tides help me, this is only day one.

Snow begins to fall as we trudge between densely packed trees, the light flurry quickly thickening. Heavy flakes thread through my hair and cling to my lashes. My fingers ache from the cold. I blow hot air over the tips, though it doesn’t help much.

At least the snow will cover our tracks.

Zevayr glances back. He’s been single-minded about covering ground, but his gaze snags on my chapped, reddened hands. His brows knit together. “You didn’t think to pack gloves?” he asks, his deep voice laced with dry amusement.

He slows beside me, peeling off his own. The gloves hang between us, like a truce begging to be broken.

“I did pack gloves,” I hiss. “They were probably in one of the other carriages that exploded. Didn’t you think to check after you tied me up?”

His jaw ticks. He shakes the gloves again, sharper this time.

“No, thank you,” I snap, even as my fingers scream.

His gaze pins me in place.

“Remember when I said I’d only touch you if you were being an idiot?” I flinch. His voice is low. Dangerous. “Don’t make me hold you down and put them on for you.”

My pulse skips. My palm itches with the desire to slap him again.

“Unless you want me to hold you down and…” His voice drops lower. “You don’t want me finishing that sentence, Mayah.”

I snatch the gloves from his hand, cramming my fingers inside.

“I sure hope your brother has better manners than you,” I mutter, trying to ignore the lingering warmth and slight dampness inside the fur-lined gloves. My fingers curl into the residual heat from his large hands, and it feels far more intimate than it should.

Zevayr snorts, striding ahead. His shadow stretches long across the snow. I follow, hating how small my steps feel beside his.

The fire crackles pleasantly, warming my fingers—though they’ve been warm all day. Zevayr refused to take back the gloves, no matter how hard I insisted. My legs ache, and exhaustion seeps through every inch of me. We walked until the sun dipped behind the trees, stopping only when visibility became an issue.

“Why didn’t your brother come for the ceremony?” I ask despite my better judgment. I can almost tolerate him when he’s silent.

Zevayr doesn’t respond immediately. He tosses the remains of our dinner—a pitiful hare he’d caught earlier—into the snow.

“Too dangerous. Not worth the risk for the crown prince to venture into … hostile territory.” He finally sits across from me. Firelight catches in his dark hair.

I open my mouth again, but he cuts me off. “Get some sleep. It’ll be another long day tomorrow.”

“It’s my turn to take first watch,” I protest, even as fatigue weighs heavy on my eyelids.

He gives me a long look, one that seems to say I know you’re full of shit. I bristle.

Zevayr exhales sharply. “Tomorrow we’ll alternate. Rest. Please.” He stretches the word, jaw tight, like it burns his tongue. It’s clear he’s not a man accustomed to saying it.

I debate arguing further but decide against it.

“Here,” he says, unfastening his cloak. “Sleep under my cloak.”

I hesitate, eyeing the cloak like it’s a rabid snow wolf.

“And … where will you sleep?”

A beat. Then, with the faintest hint of challenge, “Under my cloak.”

My fingers tremble as I take it. It smells like smoke and pine and him. Wrapped in it, cocooned in warmth, I try to sleep. I really do.

But I lay there, awake. Listening. Waiting.

I’d slept in his arms last night, but I’d been half-frozen and half-asleep. It feels much more dangerous tonight.

Eventually, the scraping sizzle of snow kicked over fire wafts toward me. I can only guess when he’s reached the blanket by the faint sound of his boots unlacing—somehow, his footsteps are always silent. His breath is steady as he peels back the edge of the cloak and lies down beside me.

So close. Tides drown me. Must he nestle in so close? I guess we won’t both fit beneath the cloak otherwise, but does he need to—

“You know it defeats the purpose of me staying up if you don’t actually sleep,” he rumbles, voice laced with amusement.

I snap my eyes open. His gray gaze waits for me in the dark.

“This feels wrong,” I whisper. “What will your brother think … when he finds out we’ve … slept together. I mean not—”

“If you think this counts as sleeping together, you’ve been doing it wrong.”

My breath catches in my throat.

He goes still. Then he sighs, low and tired. “That was … inappropriate.” When I don’t answer, his voice softens. “No one needs to know. The weather will warm up as we get closer to Arbinj. We won’t have to sleep this way for long. It’s just survival, Mayah. Nothing else.”

Just survival.

So why is my heart racing like I’m being chased?

It’s a long time before sleep finally comes.