War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(47)

“I’m … fond of it.”

Just like he’s fond of his sword.

He gestures to the chair again. “Sit down.”

I do so, eyeing the assortment of food and the thick, steaming coffee alongside it.

Rather than taking his own seat, War kneels, pressing his hands to my wounds. By now I’ve gotten used to this routine. It’s still startlingly intimate to have him this close and to feel his flesh pressed to mine, but I’ve come to expect it—even anticipate it.

I’m not right in the head.

“Are you just healing me because you want to fuck me?”

Holy mother of God. Did those words really come out of my mouth?

What is wrong with you, Miriam?

The horseman’s head snaps up to me. He stares for several seconds, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “I healed you for my own reasons. Fucking you is another matter altogether.”

War finishes his work and sits down in the seat next to mine.

And now I’ve got to deal with the twelve tons of sexual tension I’ve introduced into the room.

To distract myself, I force out the words I’ve been meaning to say to him.

“I’m going back.”

War’s eyes move casually to me, but I sense deep tension at my words. “Back where?” His mouth actually lifts a little, like going back in any sense of the phrase is ridiculous and impossible.

“Back to my tent.”

Now War straightens in his seat. He wears a terrible, frightening face, one that causes men to quake before he’s laid a hand on them.

“Why?” It’s a demand more than a question.

“We’re not lovers.”

The deep look the warlord gives me has my core heating.

That will change, his eyes say.

“Not to mention that you’re destroying the entire world,” I say. “It was kind of you to heal me—”

“Kind,” he repeats, like he’s never heard anything so distasteful in his life.

“—but I’m better now, and I want my tent back.”

Had I really ever thought the warlord’s eyes were sad? There’s only violence in them. Soul-devouring, terrible violence.

He leans forward, and that single action has me wanting to recoil.

“What if I told you no?” he says, his voice low. “What if I told you that you couldn’t leave?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you going to try to stop me when you’ve worked so hard to give me space?”

“Make no mistake, Miriam,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “I can do whatever I please. I plucked you from your first home. I can pluck you from your second one too.”

“Don’t ruin this,” I say softly.

His face flickers, and for a moment I think he’s remembering how I told him I hated him.

“And if I give you your own tent again, who’s to say that you won’t be attacked the moment you’re alone?”

“You let me ride into battle,” I say. “There’s a part of you that clearly trusts your god to protect me.”

“He’s your god too.”

Um, agree to disagree.

“If you force me to stay here,” I say, “you’re no better than those men who attacked me.”

Alright, so that’s a bit of a stretch.

It seems to make logical sense to War, however.

His jaw clenches and he looks away, his nostrils flaring.

“Fine,” he grits out after a moment, his eyes still full of violence. “You can have your tent back—for a time.”

War stands and leans in. “But I will decide when time’s up, and none of your pretty human arguments will change that.”

War is a man of his word. He does indeed give me back my tent later that very day … he just happens to move it right next to his own.

“What is this bullshit?” I demand, staring at the two of our tents sitting side by side. Mine looks laughably tiny next to his.

The horseman stands next to me, surveying the view. I had to all but drag him from his tent to hear me out, and I’m pretty sure he was lapping up my reaction like it was Baklava.

Now he leans in close to me. “You’re welcome.”

You’re welcome? What in the actual fuck?

“This is not what we agreed to,” I say heatedly.

“It’s exactly what we agreed to. Just be glad I didn’t move it inside my own tent. I was tempted, wife.” War eyes me up and down. “How do you feel?”

Like a bloody mess.

I lift a shoulder. “Better,” I say begrudgingly. Very, very begrudgingly.

His gaze sweeps over me. He gives a short nod. “Then we will pack up and ride out tomorrow—after your attackers face their judgement, of course.”

With that ominous final line, he leaves.





Chapter 21


The next morning, War wakes me from my new tent.

I know it’s him from the moment his warm, firm touch meets my skin. I still jolt at the sensation. It’s going to take a while to completely erase the attack from my memory.

“Rise, Miriam,” he says, already retreating from my tent. “The day has come.”

I frown, rubbing my eyes. “What day?”