Someone touched his arm. Saayna. Worry ringed her eyes as she sat him up and smoothed back his sweaty hair.
“Prophet?” she asked.
And in his delirium, he began to laugh. Saayna froze, watching him with an expression stuck between horror and confusion. But he could not stop. Could not bottle the feeling of panic as he thought, with awful clarity,Your Prophet is dying.
Samson ordered no one to disturb him once he returned to Magar. He knew his men would say nothing, but if people saw him like this, they would begin to wonder, and he could not hear more whispers of his shortcomings. Most of all, he could not bear Elena’s judgment. His supporters may desert him. People were slow to accept gods, but quick to destroy them. But if Elena forsook him… He shuddered at the thought.
Samson peeled off his clothes until he was bare chested. Gooseflesh prickled up his skin.Damn this cold.
He splashed water on his face when he heard a sound. Turning, he saw Elena in the doorway.
“Oh.”
Water dripped down his neck, his chest. She stared openly. Was that a smile flickering on her face? No, he must have imagined it, because when she met his eyes, her gaze was cool, controlled.
“We’ve got a comms channel open with the Yumi.”
“What?” He stared at her. “When?”
She handed him a towel, her eyes lingering on the scar on his chest. The weight of her gaze sent a strange fire down his spine. “Get dressed. We’re needed in the war room.”
“Why did you come yourself to tell me? You could have sent a soldier.”
“I wanted to spare someone else of your narcissism,” she said. “Coming?”
He laughed, surprised he still remembered how. “I am not a narcissist.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“And you know many?”
“Just one. But he’s enough for me to make sense of them all.”
He wagged a finger. “You have barely scratched the surface of Samson Kytuu.”
“See. He even refers to himself in the third person.”
Samson smiled as he toweled off and grabbed a sweater. He walked slowly in controlled strides to hide his limp when Elena stopped. She offered an arm.
“Chivalry isn’t dead, you know,” she said.
“I’m fine.” He pushed past her, and after a moment, Elena followed.
“What happened at the high temple?” she asked.
“Nothing. I said I’m fine.”
“You’re limping.”
“I am just tired, Elena.”
He could feel her staring, tasting the lie, but instead of responding with a quip, she rested her arm on his and squeezed.
“You don’t need to pretend with me,” she said quietly.
His heart flailed, ringing inside his chest. “I am not pretending.”
“All right,” she said, but her arm remained on his, steady and sure, and he leaned into her as they walked, his chest quickening and tightening with nameless, breathless sensation.
