I grab it, pulling it back. “This one?”
She snarls, reaching past me—our bodies brushing.
Scentstangling.
I hear her breath hitch, wish I had a little more light so I could see if her cheeks are flushed.
Pulling the lantern further away, I keep itjustout of reach …
She loses her balance, falling against me with anoomph,and I absorb every soft curve of her body.
It doesn’t matter that we’re both fully clothed and covered in gore—the smell of her, the mere proximity of her, the thrill ofdanger… it has me stretching out, baring my throat the slightest amount.
“You’re an ass,” she snips, snatching the lantern.
“Not all the time.” The words spill out raspier than I’d intended.
She glances up and stills, eyes glazing as they skim across my throat.
The bared length of fragile flesh.
The invitation.
Aplea—pathetic and desperate and so fuckingshameful.
She snarls, shoving off, like a slap back to reality.
I clear my throat, straighten my clothes, and hope it’s too dark for her to see the bulge in my pants.
In a dash of snow and stolen breath she’s straddling me, weight pressed on my aching length, blade kissing my throat, teeth bared and eyes flashing.
My breath snags at the feral look in her eyes.
She leans so close I can feel her warm breath against my ear before she whispers, “Don’t ever play that game with me again. Do you understand?”
I swallow, rolling the ball in my throat, forcing my skin to nick against her blade. A dribble of warmth spills down my neck, and the air around us flushes with the scent of my blood.
She snarls, whipping back, her features so sharp every cell in my body is poised for that tangible zap of pleasure it’sstarvingfor.
“You know better,” she growls, then shoves to a stand, gathering her supplies and stalking off into the night. I bask in my shame for a few deep breaths before I follow like the hopeless mutt I am. Because I do know better …
I do.
But I also don’t.
My horse likes to bite.
She’s black and white, and since we entered the stable at dawn, the only living being she hasn’t taken a lunge at isme.
The stableman at the village told me her name is Rosie—right before she nicked the back of his arm and made him bleed, reminding me of Rhordyn’s big, black stallion, Eyzar. Baze never let me ride him, insisting I use the hacks instead. Said the horse was too savage and unpredictable and that Rhordyn would castrate him if I got trampled to death.
Since we emptied Blue Hollow of its meager stable stock, and since Rosie took to nuzzling me for ear scratches rather than snapping at me, Cainon allowed me to ride her on the condition that I stay right behind him. Naturally, Rosie almost took a chunk out of his horse’s ass, so now I’m leading our small convoy, pretending I’m by myself, going someplace where there are no expectations stacked upon my shoulders.
A pretty ruse.
And still ...
Everywhere I look I seehim:in the stormy clouds that won’t stop dumping on us; in the chill wind nipping at my blanched knuckles; in the waiting darkness between the trees.
