Page 13 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

“Then who was it designed for?”

The Elders? Or all of Verdanthia? And for what purpose?

Shadows flare, covering Rian’s expression before drawing back to reveal his hard, handsome face. “That’s none of your concern.”

A shiver races down my spine. I tell myself it’s from the cold water.

“Why not?”

“Because no matter the wrongs done to you by those in Verdanthia, you are still determined to view us as the enemy.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Because you are the enemy!”

Rian’s eyes dip.

I hurry to clamp my arms back over my chest.

“Think what you will, Elara, but my men and I are not working against you.”

“Then let me go back to Ferria.”

His jaw tightens. “I can’t. Not until Darius is cured.”

“Surely someone else can help him now?” I ask, desperate. “You can find a more experienced⁠—”

“There is no one more experienced,” he cuts in. “No one has ever done what you did.”

The truth in his words sinks like a stone in my gut. “Truly?”

“Truly.” For once, his voice softens.

Barely.

His silver gaze steadies on me, the stunning color dimming, giving way to his usual smoky irises. “Now, bathe before complete darkness falls. And for the love of the Mother, try not to drown again.”

He turns to the shore with an air of indifference that stings far more than it should.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

Rian pauses and looks over his shoulder. Amusement flickers over his features. “Oh, Elara. Now who’s the liar?”

He strides away before I can respond.

I stay there for several minutes, staring at the rippling water. The night closes around me, quieter now, broken only by the soft rush of the stream.

I force myself to move—to scrub, rinse, breathe—anything that isn’t thinking about Rian’s voice or his touch or the way my body melts in his hands.

By the time I climb out of the water, the moon and stars have overtaken the setting sun as the only light in the sky. I dry myself quickly and wrap the soft towel over my damp hair.

My limbs grow heavy, weighed down by physical and mental exhaustion. I slip on my chemise and gown, then make my way toward the soft glow of the campfire peeking through the trees.

The fire crackles in the center of the clearing, throwing shadows against the tree trunks lining the edge of our camp. Draven sits beside the flames, his massive arms braced on his knees. Darius lounges on a log closer to the pair of off-white tents, smirking at something Jaxon says next to him.

The smell of stew drifts through the air, rising from the charcoal pot sitting at the edge of the fire.

Before I even speak, Draven lifts his gaze. “You’ll sleep there.”

He jerks his chin toward the large midnight-blue tent. The prince’s tent.