Page 4 of The Last War We Ever Fought

He stood, too, towering over her again. “They say a god has sway over their most benevolent admirer. Why is it that my sway fades with you even though you’ve been following my orders most ardently? Why is it that I have so little sway on you when you’ve led and won so many wars in my name?”

“In your name?” she asked, astounded by his statement.

“Every war is led in my name. You’ve led many of them.”

That angered her—enraged her cold blood with fire. “Maybe I hoped that the next one I fought would end in your demise.”

“There is no hope in war, Rowan. If you wish to deceive me somehow, you’d achieve greater results using less of that word.” He wrapped a hand around her wrist and put the blade back in her hand before pulling the sharp edge to his throat. “My demise is also my victory. There is no war without demise. No win caused by no demise. No loss caused by no demise. My existence finds no end in demise. A win or a loss, all is victory to me. If it is my end you wish to find, I’d try something else.”

“Maybe then I will take the easy way out. Maybe I will kill you.”

“Might be a hard task for you.”

“Not at all.”

“Yet, we’ve been at these odds for over a minute and the only blood that has been spilled is yours.”

“You think I would not take the chance?” Rowan asked, tightening her grip on the knife and pushing the blade into his neck.

“One so determined would surely ask less questions.”

When the clock kept ticking past seconds and then long minutes, he let go of her hand holding the blade and reached for the other that was still bleeding, carefully wrapping the fabric around the finger—because she’d let him. “You’ve never killed, have you, little thief?”

She scoffed, dropping the knife to the table and pulling her other hand away from his. “I have,” she gritted out, unwrapping the bandage and throwing it back at him.

“But you’ve never taken a life with those hands.”

“There are countless other ways to win wars.”

“I’d like to hear every single one of them if you will allow me.”

“Shouldn’t you already know them all?”

“I do, but I like hearing you talk.”

Rowan’s hand reached back for the dagger on the table, fast enough to catch him by surprise, but not fast enough to injure him.

He leaned back, missing her attack. “Shouldn’t we at least exchange first names, age and occupation before jumping into such a relationship?”

Rowan didn’t hesitate, she pushed to her feet, spinning fast and aiming the dagger right to his heart.

His hand wrapped around her wrist before she could pierce his skin. “My name is Elijah. Thought you might want to know before you try again.”

“I don’t give a damn,” she hissed, dropping the dagger and catching it under with her free hand, aiming at his stomach. Only for her other hand to end trapped again in his grip.

“You give a little damn,” he said, holding her there in a steel grip. “When you bury me like you buried the rest of your enemies, speak it. I want you to speak my name.” His eyes dropped to her lips. “I want you to be the very last one to do so.”

Rowan felt the chill of his words down her every bone. She groaned, struggling and thrashing to get herself free. So unlike all the principles she’d been adhering since a little child. There weren’t supposed to be emotions when she fought. Her mind usually went blank in battle, utterly detached from the rest of her body. She never fought with anger or hunger. It helped her save energy, it helped her become resilient and gave her more endurance than any other soldier. By the end of any battle, she was ready to start another while everyone else dragged exhaustion through their feet.

Focusing on her breathing, she emptied her mind again, her body going slack and unresistant. War thrived on anger, she refused to see him feed from her own.

“Don’t do that,” he said, tilting his head to the side and smirking. “Don’t talk yourself out of feeling angry when you are.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“For someone who takes orders so ardently, that’s an odd change of heart.” He pulled at her hand, pressing the tip of her dagger right on his chest, the tip of the blade digging through his thin black shirt. “Are you ready to know what would happen if there was no war? Would you be able to face the consequences of my death?”

“With pleasure,” she sneered, holding his gaze.