Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IWAKE ALONE THE NEXT morning. A cold wave of disappointment rushes through me—I thought he might’ve stayed. I don’t know why I expected things to be different between us after last night.

What could possibly be different?

He’d still be the son of my mother’s murderer.

And I’d still be betrothed to his brother.

It’s easier this way. It’s better this way.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll eventually believe it.

I flop onto my back right as Zevayr emerges through the trees.

“Rise and shine, Mayah.” He’s shaved his face, his jaw and neck smooth. The sight sends a rush of heat coiling through me. I suck my lower lip into my mouth. What would his smooth skin feel like against my cheek? My neck? My—

Tides, what is wrong with me? My face flushes, and I roll onto my stomach before he sees the damning redness.

“I’m still tired,” I say, hiding my face in the blanket. It’s not a lie—I am tired. And my legs ache. I’ll use my powers to soothe them after breakfast.

Zevayr walks over, his steps halting beside my head. Awareness ripples through my body, leaving me trembling, yet I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze.

“Ten more minutes, baby,” he rumbles. I flush harder, burrowing my face deeper into the blanket. “Then we go.”

“Don’t call me baby.”

It’s late afternoon when it happens.

One minute, we’re walking through the trees, and in the next, Zevayr has me pinned against a thick trunk, large hand clamped over my mouth. The air rushes from my lungs. Tides, the man is pure muscle, and every hard inch of him is melded against me. Warmth floods my body, heating my cheeks and scorching my veins before pooling in my core. My chest heaves against his, and I almost whimper at the delicious friction.

Except Zevayr isn’t looking at me.

I frown—or I try to, with his hand pressed to my lips—but his focus is on the surrounding trees.

And then—a sound stirs the silence.

Faint footsteps.

“Stay here,” he whispers. “Nod so I know you’ll listen.”

He doesn’t remove his hand.

I nod, lips skimming his calloused palm.

He vanishes in a heartbeat, swallowed by the trees. Then—there. I catch sight of him in the underbrush. A crouching shadow beneath the thicket, a waiting predator.

We don’t wait long.

Six men emerge into the clearing. They’re dressed for battle—dark leather and sheathed swords.

Rebels.

“—believe she did that?” one of the men cackles. “I thought the poor man would faint.”

“Mona’s a firecracker,” another man agrees, slapping his portly companion on the back. The other men chuckle in agreement.

They march past Zevayr.

Maybe they’ll keep going. Maybe they won’t see us at all.

Step after step, the men move on, and I exhale a relieved sigh. Still, I don’t so much as twitch. They’re almost gone when—

A sharp whistle echoes through the clearing.

Once, twice, and then a third, long note.

The rebels halt in their tracks.

“Would you look at that, boys?” the portly man announces. “Some sneaky bastards are hiding.”

Before even a whisper of fear can breathe down my spine, Zevayr thunders toward them, sword poised to deliver death. The men fumble for their weapons, but he’s faster—one man drops lifeless before steel even clears their scabbards, a dagger jutting from his neck.

The clash of metal echoes through the trees. Zevayr is a violent storm, his sword a flash of lightning as he blocks and parries before delivering death blows.

Another man falls to the ground.

Four left.

Realization jolts through me—five men left.

Whoever whistled—whoever alerted the rebels—must be above us, somewhere with a clear view. I creep forward on silent steps, scanning the trees. Nothing stirs. Only a sea of leafy branches, concealing more than they reveal.

A sharp grunt of pain jerks my gaze back to the fight. Not Zevayr—thank the Tides. Another man lies dead at his feet. He could end this in an instant, call down lightning and kill them all, but he holds back. He must not want to draw more attention.

Satisfied that Zevayr is holding his own, my gaze sweeps back to the trees. Minutes drag by before I spot him—the rebel tucked into the branches, his green and brown garb melting into the foliage.

My breath catches—he has a crossbow leveled at Zevayr.

And Zevayr doesn’t see him.

My legs move, unbidden.

A distant click, a sharp twang.

Whistling death, hurtling right for him.

“Zevayr!” I shout, bolting through the underbrush. He freezes, eyes wide as they land on me. The rebels swivel their heads. One of them pivots, heading my way and—

It happens so fast.

The arrow finds its mark. Searing pain erupts in my side.

A burning punch to my ribs.

A flash of heat. Then cold.

My breath shudders out of me as I crumple to the ground.

The color drains from Zevayr’s face, his gray eyes panicked. I blink, and he’s the Dark Commander, his expression contorted with violent wrath.

He roars, and the sky rumbles in response. The man closest to him has no chance as Zevayr shoves his sword clean through him.

I don’t understand what happens next. I thought he’d summon lightning and incinerate them.

He doesn’t—but the men die anyway.

The air crackles.

One by one, the men vibrate, pained, garbled groans escaping stuttering mouths. The stench of smoke and metal wafts through the air, and the sizzling grows louder.

Their bodies jerk unnaturally, like puppets with snapping strings.

One man falls to the ground, dead.

The others follow.

There’s a loud thud—the sharpshooter falls, too, his body crashing to the ground.

I try to breathe, but my lungs won’t obey. Zevayr’s face, feral with rage, blurs out of focus before the darkness swallows me whole.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“MAYAH.”

I groan.

“Mayah.” Zevayr’s voice is insistent, close. “Wake up.”

My eyes flutter open. We’re moving. I’m cradled against his chest, and each frantic step jostles the arrow embedded in my side.

“We’re far enough,” he mutters, glancing behind him. “Let’s get that arrow out of you.”

The sun is just beginning to set, and its waning light casts long shadows in the small clearing where we’ve stopped. He gently sets me down, propping me against a thick tree trunk.

“Drink.” He presses a canteen to my mouth, and I gulp the water in deep swigs. “Easy,” he murmurs.

I wipe my mouth, panting. Tides, it hurts.

“I’m going to break the shaft before I remove the arrow. Then you can heal yourself.”

I nod, and even that slight movement has me wincing.

His fingers find the shaft near the base, bracing it against his palm.

“Hold still.”

A muted crack. White-hot pain shoots through me as he breaks the shaft cleanly. My breath escapes in rasping wheezes, and Zevayr laces our fingers together, squeezing tightly.

When I’ve caught my breath, he gently lifts my tunic over the shortened shaft, tucking it around my ribs.

“Does it look bad?” I pant. “Because it hurts like a bitch.”

“It’s only a scratch,” he says, with a small quirk of his lips. “You’re just a baby.” His tone is playful, but I know him well enough to recognize the worry tightening his mouth, the concern darkening his gaze.

He hands me the leather sheath of his dagger. It’s cool between my teeth as I clamp down on it. Long fingers ghost over my ribs before Zevayr braces his palm against my sternum, his other hand gripping the shaft.

Stormy gray eyes meet mine.

“Ready?”

“Just do it,” I mumble around leather.

He gives no warning after that.

Burning, searing, gutting pain explodes in my side as he yanks the arrow out, quickly staunching the flow of blood with his hand. The leather clamped between my teeth muffles my cries of pain, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Zevayr murmurs. There’s so much pain in his eyes, you’d think he was the one who had a giant arrow ripped out of him. He covers the wound with a piece of torn cloth, then presses my hands over it. “Hold this.”

My breathing is ragged. The pain is unbearable. But I manage to follow his instructions. He returns within minutes with a refilled canteen. Gentle hands take the leather from between my teeth. The water is cool as he tips it into my mouth, along with a few tart berries.

The sustenance will help my reserves, meager though it may be.

His hands press over mine at the wound, pulling me against his chest. He curves his body around me, a shield of warmth, holding me until my breaths fall into rhythm with his—until the sharp pain eases into a dull, steady throb.

“Thank you,” I rasp. My limbs are boneless, like packed, wet snow, and my gut churns uneasily. “I think I can heal myself now.”

I close my eyes and reach for my power.

Nothing.

I blink.

I summon it again.

No—

Panic flares.

I try again, harder. But my power stays locked behind some invisible wall.

I pull away from Zevayr’s chest and try again.

But there’s still no answer. I can feel it—my power is still there, swirling inside me, but it’s somehow blocked.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern lacing his voice.

“My power,” I stammer. “It’s not working. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He stiffens, then lets out a low string of curses.

“What?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes, but the tremble in his hands gives him away. Zevayr walks stiffly to his pack, like movement is the only thing keeping him together.

When he returns, there’s a small tin of herbal resin in his palm.

His jaw is clenched tight, fury contorting his tanned face. The sky slowly darkens, clouds gathering overhead.

“Zevayr. Breathe,” I manage through gritted teeth.

“Iron. The arrow was coated with iron. It’s in your bloodstream, suppressing your powers. It’s why you can’t heal. Brace again.” Without warning, he presses the leather sheathe back between my teeth.

The wound burns as he rinses it with clean water. Tears stream down my cheeks anew as he seals it with strong-smelling resin. His hands are impossibly gentle as he pulls my tunic back into place.

He carries me to the blanket, cradling me to his chest like I’m something precious, settling down beside me.

“Sleep,” he says softly, brushing damp hair from my face. “The iron will be out of your system by morning.”

But his hand lingers, as if he’s not ready to let go.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ZEVAYR WAS WRONG.

The iron was not, in fact, out of my system by morning.

Or even the late afternoon.

I’m propped up against another tree, panting and sweating as if I’ve exerted myself a great deal, but Zevayr has carried me most of the day. We’ve managed to cover the same amount of ground as we would have if I had walked. I’m too wrung out to let that fact irk me.

He’s been exceedingly nice—too nice. No teasing, no calling me baby. There’s a crease in his brow that has taken permanent residence, and it deepens whenever he looks at me.

Like now.

“I need to check the wound,” he says, but I’m already lifting my tunic—a clean one he’d helped me change into this morning. Sweat dots my forehead, dripping into my eyes, but an unshakeable chill clings to me—early signs of infection. The jagged gash is inflamed at the edges, and Zevayr’s scowl deepens more than I thought possible.

“Maybe my power will be back tomorrow?”

He doesn’t look too sure. “Bastards must have double-coated the arrow. Maybe triple-coated. The effects shouldn’t last this long.”

I tug my tunic down and sit up, wincing at the stabbing pain in my side.

Zevayr doesn’t miss it. A muscle pulses in his jaw. “I should’ve killed them slower,” he growls.

“How did you kill them?” The question has been on my mind, but the aching pain in my side has taken forefront. “You didn’t summon lightning.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lifts my tunic back up with a casual familiarity that feels entirely too intimate. He takes his time massaging a minty ointment into my skin around the edges of the wound.

“There are small particles of lightning in the air,” he says. “Sometimes more, sometimes less, but always present. I harnessed those to kill them.”

Besides Faerataak the Mighty, I’ve never heard of a real stormwielder with such an ability, not in all my years of healing or studying.

“Have you—have you used it in battle?”

He swallows hard. His gaze cuts to me for a heartbeat before settling back on my wound. “Just once. I can’t do it at will. Only when I’m enraged—too far gone to think. It’s like something else unlocks inside me.”

“Oh.”

I don’t know what to do with that piece of information—that seeing me hurt brought him to a level of anger he’d only experienced once before.

I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t care. But the words tumble out anyway. “Was that when Lev died?”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Yes.”

The next day passes the same—Zevayr carrying me through this never-ending forest as we get closer and closer to leaving Rebellion territory. Fever blazes through my body, trapping in a haze that swallows most of the day. By the time Zevayr stops for the night, I’m surprised his teeth haven’t cracked from how hard his jaw is clenched.

Wordlessly, he lifts my tunic. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. I glance down and realize why.

The wound is swollen, angry red starbursts radiating out across my torso. I stretch slightly, and the resin seal cracks easily, yellowish pus clinging to the edges like molten wax. A foul, metallic stench curls into the air—iron and rot, sharp enough to sting my nose.

His eyes are panicked. “Try to heal yourself,” he rasps, voice wavering.

I call to my power, but the block is still there. And even if it weren’t—the infection has weakened me significantly. Even if all the iron had left my system, I doubt I’d have the reserves to heal myself.

“Skies,” Zevayr curses. He rakes a violent hand through his dark locks, and when that doesn’t soothe him, he paces the campsite like a feral arctic wolf.

I watch him, too weak to do anything else.

He stops mid-step and tilts his face to the sky, as if asking for strength. His steps are measured when he returns and crouches to my level.

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, gray eyes fixing again on my infected wound.

“Are you familiar with … power sharing?” he asks quietly. His eyes are dark and ringed with panic.

A grimace tugs at my lips as I try to sit up, but darkness pools at the edge of my vision. The world tilts, and I pitch sideways before Zevayr catches me. My hands tremble helplessly, the wound gone completely numb. That isn’t a good sign.

“There was a man and woman,” I rasp. My voice is slow. Labored. “Caught power sharing. It’s forbidden. Too much power to one person. Unnatural. Dangerous.”

He nods quickly. “That’s true, yes. If one wielder channeled enough power into another, it would weaken him temporarily and strengthen the other.” He licks his lips, taking a deep breath. “But that’s not the only reason it’s forbidden.”

My brows furrow.

“It also acts as a strong … stimulant. For the wielder receiving the power.”

“Stimulant?”

He hesitates, raking his teeth over his lower lip.

“Aphrodisiac.” His lips press into a thin line. “If performed without consent … it makes it incredibly easy to take advantage of someone.”

Father’s angry outburst in the council meeting flits through my mind, painting his reprimand of Sorka in a different light.

“How do you know about this?”

A heartbeat.

“I’ve shared my power before.”

Oh.

“And you want to channel your power into me.”

He nods, carefully wiping the sweat from my brow. “Just a little. Enough to fight through the lingering iron so you can heal yourself. I’m—Skies, Mayah. I’m terrified.” His voice cracks. “We can keep going, but you’re getting worse. This would save you. But you need to know what will happen after.”

He’s right—we’re still too far from the Arbinji base to wait for medicinal herbs to help fight the infection.

A healer killed by a flesh wound.

A panicked laugh claws from my throat, and Zevayr’s brows draw together.

“Maybe—maybe it won’t have that effect on me. Maybe I can fight it off.”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. You’re strong, Mayah. You can do this. And even if you can’t, even if you start feeling … strange, it’ll just be my power flowing through you. I’ll know it’s not anything real.” His voice has gone oddly flat.

I trust him. It scares me, but I trust him.

“All right.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ZEVAYR SAGS WITH SO much relief, I worry he’ll sink into the earth and vanish.

“What do I do?” I ask softly.

“Nothing. Just sit back. I’ll do everything,” he says. Zevayr scoots closer until he’s almost straddling my thighs. His palms press against the sides of my neck, hands cool against my hot, sweaty skin.

At first, there’s nothing.

Just his large hands pressing into my neck, the firm weight of his thighs bracketing mine. I’m about to open my eyes and ask him if he’s doing it right when—

Oh.

There it is.

A rush of power trickling into my veins, strange and unfamiliar. Not mine, but not unwelcome. It flows faster and stronger, the trickle surging into a heady rush and—

Zevayr removes his hands.

“That should do it, I think.” He’s watching me intently, his eyes dark.

“I can feel it. Your power. It’s inside me. It’s—it’s mingling with my own.”

“Yeah. It’s only temporary, though. In another ten minutes, you should be able to heal yourself.”

“Will I be able to control lightning?”

He chuckles. “No. It’ll only strengthen your natural wielding affinity. Unless you’re secretly hiding stormwielding abilities.”

I snort. “I’d be the realm’s worst stormwielder. Cowering from a storm I summoned myself.” Zevayr breaks out into a wide grin, his first real smile since the arrow pierced my side.

It sends a rush of warmth through me.

Or is that his power?

We sit in silence, Zevayr’s fingers tracing gentle lines along the inside of my arm, occasionally checking my pulse with two fingers.

After ten minutes, I lift my tunic—the wound looks even worse.

I call to my power.

And Tides, does it respond.

My hands glow with bright, white light, brighter than I’ve ever summoned. I cover the wound with my palms, and in minutes, my body is free of infection, the skin mending itself until not even a scar remains.

Zevayr watches the wound close, then exhales a relieved sigh, sagging against me, as if the toll of the last three days is too heavy to bear for another moment. I set my palms against his neck and send a flowing rush of healing power through him as well.

“Stop. Conserve your energy,” he says, but I ignore him and keep healing, soothing every aching muscle.

I grin brightly at him, adrenaline surging through me.

I could do anything.

I could do everything.

I’m so strong.

“How much power did you give me?” I ask, standing up and stretching. Tides, it feels good to move.

“Very little. It’s almost like a high at first. It’ll wear off soon and then…” He trails off.

“We wait for me to try and ravish you?” I give him a mocking smile, brows raised.

“…Yes.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Let’s hope.”

My blood is boiling in my veins.

It’s incredibly hot. Maybe my fever is coming back. Did I miss healing some of the infection?

But I know that’s not the case.

Unbidden, my eyes find Zevayr where he’s removing the remains of our dinner from the spit over the fire. His dark hair curls at the nape of his neck. It’s grown out since we first met. It looks so soft. I want to tangle my hands in it and tug his face toward me.

My fingers twitch.

The muscles in his back contract as he moves. My eyes are glued to them, following each movement with rapt attention. He must sense my eyes on him, because he turns around, and his face, Tides drown me, his gorgeous face.

It’s perfect. Sharp jawline, covered in stubble—what would it feel like against me? The rough scrape against my soft skin. Full, sensuous lips that I’ve thought about kissing often enough. Straight, dark brows framing stormy gray eyes—

Gray eyes that are watching me with mild amusement.

“You all right there, Mayah?” he asks, his lips twitching. I nearly moan at the sound of his gravelly voice. How is it so impossibly deep?

“Yeah,” I whisper. My voice is low and breathy. “Yeah, just a little warm.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Zevayr grabs a canteen and hands it to me. “Drink some water. You look flushed.”

Our fingers brush as I take it. A spark skitters along my skin at the contact. He kneels before me, scanning my face. Whatever he sees makes his eyes darken.

“I’m going to stay on that side of camp”—he points behind him—“and you’re going to stay right here. If we can do that, we’ll be fine.”

I down the entire canteen.

My stubborn eyes follow him to the other side of the campsite, where he sits and begins sharpening his weapons. His long fingers grip the whetstone, sliding across the blade repeatedly with firm, steady motions. What would his fingers feel like on my skin? I want to be the sword in his hands, as he rhythmically—

“Mayah.” His voice is gruffer now. Angry. It arouses me even more. “Stop looking at me. Find something to keep yourself busy.”

With a start, I realize my hand is cupping my breast, the other pressed flat over my stomach, inching lower. But what startles me more is the fact that I’m not embarrassed at all.

Sizzling heat coils low in my belly, heady and hot. I’m burning up, and there’s a pounding ache between my thighs that’s growing impossible to ignore. My eyes are riveted to his handsome face, his strong masculine neck, his thick collarbones.

I don’t even realize I’ve moved until he barks my name.

I love the sound of it on his lips.

Tides, his lips. His full, perfect lips. They belong on my skin.

The ground is soft beneath my knees as I kneel before him, reaching for the sword in his large hands.

“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, angry eyes dark with an impending storm.

“Keeping myself busy.” The ache between my legs is unbearable.

The sword hits the ground with a dull thud, and then I’m in his lap, thighs straddling his hips, hands caressing his shoulders.

This isn’t me. Deep down, I know that. But it feels like me.

Tides, he smells so good. His proximity soothes the desperate thrum inside me.

“Skies, Mayah, stop.” He grabs my upper arms in a firm grip, keeping me from coiling around him.

“I’m aching, Zev.” My voice is low, petulant. His hands drop to my waist when I say his name. “I want you. Please.”

He mutters a curse and grips my waist harder. For a heartbeat, it seems he’ll pull me closer—kiss me. But then I roll my hips, and he shoves me away like I burned him.

“You’re not yourself. It’s my power inside you. This will wear off. Just go back. Over. There.” His eyes are nearly black.

I pout, and his gaze drops to my lips before he drags it back up. Lightning flashes in his eyes as he glares at me, and I want it to strike me down.

I trudge back to my side of camp.

Zev returns to sharpening his sword while I lean against a tree, nursing the sting of rejection. I’m so tidesdamned hot, it’s like my skin is on fire. I peel off my tunic, leaving only a thin white chemise behind.

“What are you doing?” he growls, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

“It’s hot.” I hook my fingers beneath the hem of my chemise, and in the space between heartbeats, Zev crosses the camp, his fingers clamping in a bruising grip around my wrist.

“Stop taking off your clothes,” he grits out.

My free hand slides over the defined ridges of his abdomen, up his muscled chest, to cup his face. “I thought you were going to stay on your side, Zev,” I whisper huskily, inching closer.

He wrenches away from me.

“Mayah, please,” he groans, as if in pain.

The ache inside me is all consuming.

I need—

I need—

Tides, I can’t think. Why won’t he help me?

“Please, Zev,” I moan. “It’s unbearable.”

He’s panting now. His throat bobs as he swallows. Firelight glints across the faint sheen of sweat on his neck. I want to taste it. “Why don’t you lie down? Try to sleep. It’ll wear off in a few hours.”

I take a step closer to him.

He takes a step back.

“Or maybe I can go for a walk, and you can—”

Another step closer.

Another step back.

“You won’t help me?” I don’t recognize my voice—whiny and needy.

He shakes his head, hands raised as if to protect himself.

“Fine.”

Tears sting my eyes—from his rejection, but also from the pure, tortuous need warming my blood.

I spin and bolt into the woods.