Roar (Stormheart #1)(94)

And she could hardly worry about mere possessions when the winds were screaming outside, an ominous rumble shaking the walls. She was on edge, waiting for the storm to draw close enough that she felt its presence, waiting for the invasion of emotions that weren’t hers.

“They’ll be fine,” Duke told her, after she spent too long sitting still, her eyes fixed on the window. “I’m more concerned with how you are.”

“Me? I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

“Roar. I want you to know that you can talk to me.”

“I know I can.”

“The man who sold me Stormhearts in the market in Pavan, the man you know … he’s a Stormling, isn’t he?”

She stilled, then fled to the water basin to clean off the blood smeared over her skin. “I don’t know.”

“I assure you, Roar, that I am the last person who will judge you for wanting to leave behind that kind of life. If you have Stormling ancestry, it could help us understand the way you react to storms.”

“I am no Stormling,” she said truthfully.

“You are no girl from the streets either.”

She whirled back to face him. “What does it matter? All the hunters had lives before joining the crew. It’s in the past.”

“Is it truly in the past for you?”

She thought back to the soldiers. Would there be more? How many were searching for her? Could she possibly hope to go undetected by them all? “For now.”

“Just know you don’t have to keep carrying all those secrets alone, and the past has a way of holding on to us, even when we want to let it go.”

Duke helped bandage her cuts, the two of them silent through the long process. Eventually the winds died down outside, and the nervous tossing of her stomach eased. The others were safe. They had to be.

But how long would that remain true while she stayed with them?

“Perhaps we should turn our route back toward Taraanar,” she said, her voice tentative. “The Locke soldiers … they said they were searching the southern regions for their missing princess. It might be better to avoid them.”

Duke’s green eyes fixed on her, but she did not meet his gaze. She knew how perceptive the man was, and that she had just given him the key to her identity. But she did not know what else to do. She would rather risk herself than the other hunters.

He hummed and scratched at his beard and said, “I’m sure that could be arranged. We’ll have to talk to your Locke.”

“He’s not my Locke.”

She didn’t know what he was. How could she possibly decide what she wanted from him when she did not even know what she wanted from herself? With him, there was no crown making her appear more than she was. There were no rumors of her magical skill to make her seem more desirable. He had seen her covered in blood, dissolved into tears, taken over by rage, and frozen by fear. He had seen each and every weakness she had, and somehow, he managed to make her feel … strong. If the skies made her feel small, then Locke made her feel big enough to face whatever waited for her up there.

But she was still Aurora, no matter how much she was Roar.

If she accomplished her goals, if she returned home with Stormhearts that answered to her touch, would her mother allow her to choose her own future? Could a princess choose a hunter as her prince?

*

As soon as Locke had checked on each of his teammates, he was running back for the inn. He knew the town had sustained significant damages, and there had been significant loss of life, though it was difficult to feel any sense of loss for the soldiers after what he had walked in on with Roar.

He was panting by the time he fell through the broken doorway to Roar’s room. The furniture had been righted, and her belongings put away, but pools of blood still stained the floor. The water basin in the corner was a vivid red, and Roar sat silently on her bed, her hand now properly bandaged.

Her whole body was tense, and he wanted to scoop her up into his arms and hide her away from the world. Instead he grabbed a towel and began mopping up the blood. Duke got up to help, and he quietly filled Locke in on her condition. She had several cuts—one across the fatty part of her palm and the others around the first joint in her fingers.

When the room was as clean as it was going to get without scrubbing the floors, Duke left to assess the damage from the storm, and Roar finally looked at Locke. Her jaw was tight, and her nostrils flared with strong, slow breaths. He focused on keeping his expression blank. She said, “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t you be with the other hunters? Or talking to the minister or—”

He shook his head and said, “I’m not leaving you.”

“I want to be alone. Please.”

“Then I’ll sit outside your door.”

“My door that’s broken and hanging off its hinges? Yes, that will really give the illusion of solitude.”

She was angry, and he didn’t blame her. He still wasn’t sure how he’d let those men leave the room without sinking his blade into each and every one of them. It had taken a monumental amount of control, and in the end it was only the thought that he did not want to put her in more danger that held him back.

When he did not budge, she insisted, “I’m fine.” He had lost count of the number of times he had heard her utter those words. And he had never believed them less than he did now. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her voice grated as if her throat had been stripped raw.