King of Battle and Blood (Adrian X Isolde #1)(37)

“Isolde,” he said my name again, tinged with a harshness that told me he knew my thoughts. I looked at him again and swung my leg over Shadow’s body. Adrian reached for me, his large hands splaying across my waist as he lowered me to the ground. He did not let go for a few moments, and I knew it was because he did not trust me not to bolt, but my thoughts were giving way to something else—a tangle in my chest that built as the tension between us grew.

“If you flee, you flee into the hands of your enemies now,” he said. “Do not forget what transpired here.”

I scowled. “You do not have to remind me of my treason. I think of it when I look at you.”

He did not respond, and I found myself wishing I could antagonize him instead of amuse him, because I was angry. He kept his hand on the small of my back as he walked me to his tent. Inside, it was spacious and similarly arranged as it was on the border of Revekka, but the fire he’d had blazing the night I’d come to ask for Killian’s life appeared to have been reduced to only hot embers. I tried not to wonder if he’d made that concession for me.

I stood at the center of the room, unmoving.

“I am sorry,” he said, and the words hit me wrong.

I spun to face him and pushed him. He didn’t budge, but the act felt like a release, so I did it again and again. It did nothing to him, and that only made me angrier.

“Are you done?” he asked.

I scowled and reared back, ready to release my blade and shove it into his heart—not that it would do any good—but Adrian’s hand latched onto my wrist, halting my strike.

I met his gaze.

“No.”

I shoved my other hand toward him, releasing my blade again, but he caught me, and this time he pinned my hands against my sides, stepping in to me.

“Enough, Isolde! I know you grieve—”

“What do you know of grief?” I spat. “You made me their enemy.”

“They made you the enemy. Your people could have just as easily tried to protect you.”

I flinched, knowing he was right, and the words took all my fight. He walked me backward until my knees hit the back of the bed, and I sat. My eyes were in line with his stomach, and after a moment, he tilted my head up, his fingers poised beneath my chin, so that my gaze met his.

“You had every right to defend yourself,” he said. “Take comfort. If you had not killed them, I would have, and I would not have been merciful.”

I swallowed hard, wondering what sort of justice he would have executed on my behalf.

“You must know my father had nothing to do with the attack.”

Adrian stared, unblinking, as if he did not believe me. “You are so certain?”

“Yes,” I whispered fiercely.

For a brief moment, Adrian let his fingers trail from my chin over my jaw and across my cheekbone. The movement was gentle and surprised me. As soon as the shock shuddered through me, he dropped his hand.

“Sleep,” he said and took a step away.

Again, I found myself surprised. I expected him to demand sex or at least tease it.

He raised a brow. “Unless you would prefer another activity.”

I looked down at my clothes, spattered with blood.

“A bath,” I said. “Or…whatever can be managed.”

Adrian nodded and left the tent.

A short while later, he returned with a bucket and a cloth. While he’d been gone, he had washed his face, though his clothes were still stained with the carnage of our battle.

“It is all we can manage,” he said, setting it down at the center of the tent. After, he took a seat opposite me, spreading his legs wide.

“I…don’t have anything to wear,” I said.

“It is no problem,” Adrian replied.

I glared at him, but honestly, I did not care as much as I pretended. I liked my body, I liked being unrestricted, so I removed my cloak, then my boots and the rest of my clothes. My legs and lower back ached, and it wasn’t until now that I realized how much damage I’d done to my hands during the fight. They hurt, my knuckles were bruised, and my fingers were cut. I submerged them in the water and watched the blood dance away in ribbons of red, ignoring Adrian’s burning gaze. After a few moments, I used the cloth to begin scrubbing away the remaining blood. Some of it was mine, but most of it was my attackers.

My people, I kept reminding myself, still in disbelief.

“What happened to your mother?”

I froze at his question, not expecting it but also unsure if I wanted to share what little I had of her with him. I focused on my task.

“She died,” I said.

“A while ago?” he pried.

“When I was born.”

Adrian was silent, and I moved on from cleaning my hands to my arms, my chest and stomach. I felt his gaze on all parts of me, even as he asked these serious questions. “What do you miss most about her?”

His question shocked me, and I hated being shocked by him. It was both curious and sincere, and I had an answer.

“I miss her potential,” I answered, staring at him. “I miss what could have been with her as my mother.”

He seemed strangely thoughtful. I assumed the questions were over and had returned to my task when he continued. “Who taught you to ride?”

I paused a beat, my frustration growing. “My father.”