Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(34)

Footsteps crunch.

I twist to the left and . . .

Cohen moves at the far end of the clearing, slipping between the evergreens, his broad shoulders bunching beneath a mossy-brown coat. The rough elegance of his movement. The precision. The predatory grace. I forget what I’m doing and just stare, transfixed by the sight of him. My heart thumps and jumps beneath my breastbone.

Cohen. I lower my bow and return the arrow to the quiver.

His head snaps up; recognition alights in his features even though we’re far enough apart that he couldn’t have heard me. For a split second, hope kicks through me that nothing has changed between us. That I still have the ability to know when he’s near or in danger even at times I’m unable to see him.

Only, that’s not the case. Unlike Aodren, my bond with Cohen was one-sided. Cohen could never sense my nearness. Since he didn’t know we shared a connection, he doesn’t even realize it was severed. I’ve no clue why Aodren can sense our link. All I know is the strange invisible thread that used to connect Cohen and me was broken when I healed the king.

Now I no longer have a heightened awareness of Cohen. I could no more say Cohen was at my door than I could guess if it was Gillian.

“Should’ve figured you’d beat me here.” Snowflakes scatter over his knit cap. He’s a vision with an easy grin, assessing hazel eyes, and a small headshake that obliterates my thoughts.

“Been waiting ages. Thought I’d have to set up camp.” Exaggerating stiff muscles, I clomp across the clearing until all that separates us is a game trail beaten between the naked gray shrubs. Frosty cloven prints dimple the path, immortalized until spring’s thaw.

Cohen glances at the orb of light fighting to break through the gray wall of clouds. Half his mouth hitches up, crinkling his month-old scruff. He never shaves when he’s hunting. “Camping sounds fun.”

I hide my smile. “Your letter said to be here at noon. That was a couple of hours ago. I thought you wouldn’t show.”

“Got here close enough.”

His tired eyes tell me that, in order to return on time, he must’ve slept little, ridden Siron hard, and hunted tirelessly. Of course, he doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he crowds my space, towering over me. “You must be chilled. Let me warm you. Make up for the long wait.”

I laugh, unable to keep a straight face.

His eyes target my lips, and a thrill shoots up from my toes. I wonder if he’ll kiss me. But no, his arms enfold me, stealing my thoughts as he draws me into a hug that leaves no room for shyness. “Come ’ere, Dove. Missed you.”

Seeds and stars, it’s nice to have him back. His beard tickles my neck. Cohen’s body lends heat better than a fire raging in an iron stove.

“Missed you too,” I echo his words, though he cannot hear me since my lips are muffled by his brown overcoat. Cohen isn’t required to wear the official maroon-and-gray layers the king’s guard does, even though he’s the king’s bounty hunter. It’s a blessing. Enat died only six weeks ago at the hand of a royal guard, and Papa three months before her.

“Your hair looks different.” Cohen’s tenor rumbles against my cheek.

I lean back to look up at him. “Gillian” is all I say as he continues to study the crisscrossing braids atop my head.

His attention lasts entirely too long, so I jab him in the ribs. “Don’t act as though you’ve never seen a woman wear braids. Gillian was bored. She sits at my cottage all day.”

Cohen moves his head side to side. “Shame they’re so pretty, Britt.”

“Oh?”

“They’re gonna get messed up.”

“What—”

His gloved hand slips around my cheek to the back of my head, and the other brands my hip. My breath catches as his lips mark my temple, my forehead, my cheek. Before his kiss touches my mouth, he pauses in silent question. The week after I woke from healing the king, Cohen was nothing if not cautious and considerate.

My answer is immediate. It always will be with Cohen.

I rise on my tiptoes, pressing my mouth against his, coaxing his movement over mine. He leans back to bite the tip of his glove to rip it off his hand before his fingers return to the base of my head, tilting my face to a better angle. His kiss is slow and cherishing, heated and sweet, a hello and so damn glad to be back with you.

My body hums against his like the string of a bow after the arrow’s been freed. His kiss shifts, growing more urgent. His fingers wind havoc through my hair, making good on his promise. I’m lost to him, my worries obliterated by his touch. Here, in his arms, I feel safe and loved. I grasp at the broad muscle beneath his shoulder blade, urging him closer even though a sheet of parchment couldn’t fit between us.

His groan is on my lips. His grasp migrates down my sides and under my cloak and the edge of my tunic until his palms find my ribs and sear me with want. Stars, could anything be better than the touch of his calloused fingers against my ribs?

A crunch sounds from my pocket.

I break away, breath as ragged as my thoughts, my face tingling from the scratch of his beard. Our inhalations and exhalations and banging heartbeats drown out the wintry world.

I slip my hand into my cloak pocket, registering what made the sound a scant second before withdrawing my little branch. The stick, broken into two pieces, hangs with one of the leaves now in a sad, crumpled state.