Page 130 of The Reaping Rose

“That’s not your fault,” Atlas says.

“I don’t need you to make me feel better about it.”

He shrugs. “Doubt anything will. Just stating a fact.”

When I glance up, he’s not looking at me. His sights are on something ahead. My ears perk at the sound of slow-moving water.

“A stream.” He glances down at his canister on his hip. “We could use some water.”

“And you could use a bath.” I knock past him, and he chuckles.

We both could use a bath after days of travel. My skin and clothes are caked in mud, and scabs litter my arms from the thorny branches we ran through trying to escape Cyan.

Atlas leads the way through the brush, scowling at me when a branch smacks him in the face, and I laugh.

I truly laugh.

Big and bold for the first time in…

I don’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve laughed like that.

“Keep your eyes to yourself,” I warn him as I toss my bag on the ground and start shedding clothes.

Not that anything he sees would shock him, given the reputation he has in the Quietus Court.

I have no doubt he’s seen and done it all, which isn’t uncommon for warriors. We’re constantly moving from one place to another, faced with the knowledge that any day could be our last. I know I’ve had my fun. Bedded plenty of beautiful males amid the rush of an oncoming battle. I’ve spent centuries doing as I wish and making no apologies for it, so I don’t expect Atlas to either.

But as I turn my back on Atlas and strip out of my leathers, there’s something intimate about being out here alone with him. I’m acutely aware of his every breath, every movement. Every lap of water as he steps into the stream.

This isn’t baring flesh for pleasure, and after all we’ve been through since first stepping through the Gate in Solace, I can’t shake that it feels like more.

I keep myself turned away from him as I enter the widest part of the stream. Water trickles over my skin, moving at a steady pace. I sink into the deepest part, not facing him, even when it reaches my shoulders.

The chill of the icy breeze, mixed with the cool water surrounding me, makes me shiver until heat moves through the water. A gentle warmth wraps me like a cocoon. It’s soothing after days of walking. It caresses my body, and I close my eyes, sinking into the warmth of Atlas’s magic heating the water around me.

“Better?” he asks.

I simply hum in response, getting to work scrubbing myself. We brought a single bar of jasmine soap that I use first, handing it to him next without looking. Our backs are to each other, but when our fingers brush, I swear I feel that touch all over.

I swim away, putting more distance between us while he washes. When the water stills, I glance back to see him tossing the soap to the shore. It lands perfectly atop his bag. The corner of his gaze catches me staring.

“Thought we were keeping our eyes to ourselves.” He smirks.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckles, his gaze tracing my face from afar, pausing on my scar. Instinctively, I lift my wet fingers to the groove in my skin.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, and my eyebrows pinch. “Wilder mentioned his scar hurts sometimes, even though it’s healed.”

I’m surprised Wilder shared that kind of information with Atlas. It’s a hint of the trust that exists between them when a future king so rarely shares any weakness at all.

“Not usually,” I admit, turning away from him again and feeling the waves lap when he does the same. “At least, not physically. But I suppose I still feel it.”

The pain of the memories.

The wounds that never heal.

“Did you get it the same night your parents were killed?”