The Centaur Queen (The Dark Queens #7)(15)

Petra shoved my mat into his bottomless pouch before slapping the leather flap back down with jerky, angry movements. “I know a place of relatively safety where we can bed down for the night, but we have to reach it before dusk, otherwise we’ll never find it.”

I knew all of Kingdom, geographically speaking. Not that I’d been to all parts, but I’d studied the maps of our world. There was a difference, though, in knowing and knowing. Maps only showed so much—bodies of water, unique landmarks. Some even showed terrain and altitude.

What they did not show, however, were hidden trails. No, that knowledge was gained from having traveled in a place before.

Petra would not look at me. Instead, he made of show of glancing around our campground as though he were double checking we left nothing behind. He knew as well as I there was nothing there, which meant he was evading me and didn’t want me asking questions about it.

I waited a few seconds before saying, “You ready?”

“Aye.” He nodded grimly. “Right as rain.”

I gestured for him to precede me. I had a hunch and I wanted to test its validity. Without looking back at me, he began running, but not eastward as we’d been going yesterday. He knew, without my having to say anything, that the path we took today would veer southeast only a mile from where we’d made camp.

Again, neither of us spoke much as we ran. I kept an eye out for him, making certain he was doing okay. Satyrs were not built for the run the way centaurs were. I’d rested plenty last night and knew I could easily go another forty, possibly even fifty miles today.

Petra was a little slower than he’d been yesterday. Only five miles in, his powerful back was coated in a thick lather of sweat. But he did not stop and he did not ask me to, either.

After another fifteen miles, I noticed his heavy breathing. Petra was a proud male, so I began to slow, going from a swift gallop to a slow trot. He glanced over at me with a question in his eyes. We’d been running several hours. I was hungry, but not enough to slow me down.

“Stone in my hoof.” I winced, and finally walked, gingerly lifting up my hind left leg and making a good show of limping as I spotted a large, moss-covered boulder a few yards away. He stayed with me, and though he said nothing, I saw the relief course through him. Easing my body against the boulder, I grimaced.

“Are you alright, Ty?” he asked, breaths coming in short little huffs.

I waved off his concern. “It’s wedged in there tight. It’s a bad one. Would you be a dear and find me a nice, sharp twig?”

A little color returned to his cheeks. I wasn’t certain we’d make it fifty miles today. I wasn’t even certain we’d make it forty. I could let him ride me, though I shook at the thought. I wasn’t a horse and wasn’t in the habit of letting anyone ride me.

But truly, he looked exhausted, and if we weren’t under such a time crunch, I’d tell him I was too injured to go farther.

“Of course,” he said and turned, moving with an ambling sort of gait.

Poor man.

Once he was out of range, I dropped down to my haunches and rummaged around the grass for anything I could possibly use. I found a sharpened twig the size of my thumbnail.

It would do.

Lifting my front leg just a little, I made a dramatic show of it. I had to sell it in case he watched me without my knowing.

Fumble.

Fumble.

Fumble.

Okay, surely this was enough time. “Ah, got it,” I said, flooding my voice with relief. Then I reached into my pouch and pulled out some of the smoked vole.

Petra returned a few seconds later, carrying a twig and looking at me in such a way that I knew he’d seen me, though I wasn’t quite sure whether he believed me.

Grinning widely, I tipped the bit of twig I still held toward him. “Sorry, I found one after all. Anyway, I’m famished and my hoof is still a little tender. Might as well eat while we’re here.”

His eyes narrowed, the moss color looking a deeper green and full of some strange emotion I couldn’t place my finger on.

I thought maybe the jig was up, but I plastered on an even bigger smile and tried to affect a nonchalant attitude.

A second later, he sat across from me and crossed his legs. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a handful of seeds and berries and quickly set about eating.

I gnawed at the bony bits still attached to the crude slivers of meat. In this position, his trousers gripped his thighs. He had large legs. Not fat, but very obviously muscled. Even through the cloth, I could note the ridges of them, faint though they were.

Suddenly, I found myself wondering the oddest things... like how high did the fur go, really? All the way? Did it look like a second pair of pants? When he pulled off the trousers, would it still look like he wore a set? Or did it gradually taper off?

His ridged stomach was hairless, as was his chest. He really did have a very sculpted body for a male. In fact, I’d say he looked more powerful than most of the centaur males in my herd. Gods above, was I really comparing a satyr to a centaur? And doing so favorably?

My stomach fluttered. Aware that he was watching me, I looked up at him, at his pretty eyes, and swallowed hard.

“Did you notice the changes in the terrain?” he asked softly after several minutes of silence.

“What? Oh, hm.” I nodded before reaching for another slice of dried meat and shoveling it in, mostly because I didn’t know what to do with my hands.