Page 55 of White Raven

He lifted one of my wrists, his brow furrowing at the absence of the restraint.

“How did you get them off?”

I pinned my lips together, rage pushing up and down my chest.

“All you’ve done is prove I can’t ever leave you alone. You eat, I’m there, you sleep, I’m there, you pee . . . kanin. I. Am. There.” He reached down, pulling off the belt tying up his trousers. The loose fabric sagged low, showing the cut lines of his hips, the hint of hair right at the waistband, the scars and tattoos covering his torso and crawling up his neck. “Until I get something sturdier, you sleep here . . . bound to my side.”

“I was tied to you last night, and I got away,” I shot back.

A slow, wicked smirk tipped up the side of his mouth. “Oh, this is just to hold you down.”

“Hold me down?” The heat rushing through me turned ice cold.

He leaned over, grabbing the saddlebag, pulling an object out of it.

Terror widened my eyes, not believing what I was seeing.

A needle and black pigment liquid.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Making sure you can’t hop away, kanin.” He tied my arms to the bedpost, picking up the needle. “That with my mark, they will know you are my property.”

CHAPTER 13

My pulse hammered in my ears, shock turning to alarm.

“Mark me . . .” I struggled to swallow over the dry spots in my throat. “You—you can’t.”

“Can’t I?” He tugged on my secured arms, rechecking the hold. “Who will stop me?”

Dread sank me down like a ship, panic fizzing up in its wake.

He was going to tattoo me.

Tattoos were significant in our culture—used as protectors against evil, or to bring luck and prosperity. They also could identify your family or clan.

Like a thrall.

“I’m letting everyone know you are property, kanin. Mine.”

“Property?” I shrieked. Everything was happening so fast, my head spun, making me dizzy.

“You should know what that means.” He tilted up his head, pointing at a symbol on his skin. My gaze lifted to the side of his neck; the absence of his tunic let me see my father’s symbol. An indicator he had every thrall tattooed with it. A mark of the king’s ownership.

“You are marking me as your thrall?” My voice rose, the panic clipping out in short puffs.

“In a way.”

Our culture did not take tattoos lightly. There was a potency behind each one, honor and principle. Some believed they still held magic; a power we’d otherwise lost after the Battle of Blood and the lands became divided.

He reached over to the bag, grabbing a flask from the saddlebag and twisting the top off. “To numb the pain.”

“You were already going to mark me even before I tried to get away.” Wispy and crazed, my panic nibbled more and more at my rationality. “You had this prearranged.”

“Not exactly, but plans have changed.” He leaned over, placing the flagon to my lips. “You might want to drink.”

Black spots impeded my vision as I struggled to capture oxygen.