Warrior of the Wild(63)

Soren stretches out across the blanket while I situate the packs down at our feet. When I’m done, he holds open the top blanket—and his arm—for me to crawl inside.

I’m turned into him this time, my forehead pressed against his chest. His hand moves in circles across my back.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Soren says. “I’ve asked you this before, but I thought maybe now you might want to answer. Did someone close to you break your trust?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

Soren pulls me closer, his other hand never letting up on its soothing motion at my back. He’s quiet, letting me fill the space, should I choose.

I’m surprised to find that I’m ready to share my whole story with someone.

“There was—is—a boy back in my village. His name is Torrin.” There is something about talking, about saying his name aloud, that is so freeing. I tell Soren the whole story. I tell him about my misplaced trust. About my mother who betrayed me at the first opportunity. About how my father turned on me so quickly.

Soren’s cheek rests against the top of my head as he holds me against him, letting me finish.

“If I’ve seemed so single-minded in my desire to kill the god,” I say, “it is because I have so much to set right. I want to be with my family again, but I also need to reveal the wrongs done against me. I want to go back to Seravin and truly earn the respect of my fellow warriors by behaving as a leader should.”

I breathe deeply, relishing the feeling of sharing the burden of my story. Finally.

“Thank you for telling me,” Soren says. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“I’m not. Not anymore. Not when I think of how the wild has changed me. I’m better for it.”

“I know what you mean. I think I’m better for my own banishment, too. And better for having known you. I hope you know—I’m not like this boy-child, Torrin. I don’t—”

I lift my head up so I can see his face and press a finger to his lips. “I know you’re not.”

Instead of lifting my finger, I leave it there, letting it trace his lips. I don’t know if I feel brave because it’s dark or because Soren now knows everything and he’s not shying away from me.

There’s a shift in his body. His hand returns to my back, ghosting up and down my spine. The fort gets hot. But not uncomfortable. Though perhaps unbearable. In a good way.

And just as I realize I want him to, he kisses me.

My breath leaves me. I wasn’t prepared for the gentle pressure, for the sensation that shoots down to my toes. It’s more delicious than I could have imagined, the way his mouth moves against mine. Kissing is a bit wetter than I expected, but after a while, I don’t even notice. Soren smells like all the good things in the wild: the freshness of a morning after it has rained, newly cut branches, crushed pine needles. His thumb at my cheek strokes in time to his kisses.

As soon as I understand the right motions to make, I take control of the kiss, pressing my lips just a little more roughly over his, moving them faster.

His response is immediate. He matches my tempo without hesitating. His hand goes to the lowest part on my back to draw me closer. My hands are wedged against his chest, but I want to feel more of him, so I slide them up his neck, across his cheeks, into his hair.

Oh, I like having them in his hair. Not only are the strands so smooth, but I can better move my lips when I can keep his head just where I want it.

He surprises me when a soft wet pressure goes to the seam of my lips.

His tongue.

I’m unsure what he wants, but I open my mouth to him and—

Now there’s even more sensation as his tongue strokes against mine, and it’s so glorious. I’m drowning in him, yet I feel engulfed in flames at the same time.

Being wanted. Knowing that I am wanted is the most glorious feeling in the world.

And I do know he wants me. I feel it in his kisses. Feel it in his arms wrapped around me. And lower, where one of my legs is caught between his, where my stomach is pressed so tightly against him it would be impossible not to feel just how much he wants me.

He pulls away for a moment, his head flying upward so he can breathe. “Rasmira,” he chokes out. “I need a moment.”

And I realize then that unless I want things to go even further, I need to let him compose himself. I debate for a second. Do I want to go further?

Not yet, I decide.

I pull my lips away, try to detach myself from him, but he holds me in place.

“Don’t go,” he pleads, “just hold still a moment.”

I listen to his rapid breathing. Feel his heartbeat pounding against my own. He presses his forehead against mine, and I revel in the closeness. I desperately want to close that distance, but I wait, my body nearly shaking from wanting, my lips feeling swollen but eager for more.

He wraps his arms around me, tucks my head under his chin. “Sleep,” he says.

“Are you joking?”

He laughs. “We have another busy day tomorrow. Maybe we’ll even reach the mountaintop.”

“Sleeping is the last thing I want to do,” I whine.

“Good,” he says. “But I think it would be safer if I only kissed you during the daytime.”

“Safer? You mean easier.”

“Perhaps.”