Page 44 of Ravenrose

Wyatt steps forward, an apologetic look on his boyish face, but it’s the cloth he holds in his outstretched hand that has my attention.

Rallying the last of my strength, I fight against Ayer’s grip. I dig in my heels, desperate to pull away, but it’s no use. Within seconds, the cloth covers my nose and mouth.

I seal my lips, holding my breath, fighting and thrashing, frantically trying to separate the soaked fabric from my face until my lungs burn and my head spins.

I inhale.

The cloying scent of herbs fills my nose, and the effect is instantaneous. My knees buckle and my vision spins. My eyes dart about the room, frantically searching for help, locking onto Ayer’s dark eyes right before the shadows claim me.

Chapter 21

ROWAN

The distant sound of male voices pulls me from a heavy slumber.

I move too quickly, my head spinning as I attempt to push myself up from where I’ve awoken, curled up on the ground.

Shaking away the lingering dizziness, I glance around nervously, once again finding myself alone inside this now familiar tent.

Irritation sharpens my senses. It’s almost insulting to have been left here again, unbound and unguarded. Annoyed, I rub gently at my temples, attempting to ease the incessant pounding coming from inside my skull.

He drugged me.

The bastard.

Anger flares at the thought before quickly devolving into dread when I realize they knocked me out. I’ve been asleep—vulnerable—unable to protect myself for what’s sure to have been hours, judging by how bright the sun lights up the tent. My hands drop down, frantically searching my body, relief billowing through me when I find every scrap of clothing exactly where it should be.

And my knife.

By the light.

I offer a silent prayer to the gods at the familiar feel of the blade, still hidden beneath my skirt. It’s an even better sign that I was left untouched; they would have taken the weapon had they found it.

And after all, I woke up on the floor, near the tent’s entrance and not in⁠—

The bed.

My heart skips a beat as my gaze trails over the soft pallet of furs in the far corner. The bed—is not empty.

Atop it lies the passed out, godsforsaken Kovari captain himself.

Stunned, I sit as still as I can, watching his chest move up and down with his breaths. Twelve moons, he is a sight. Just bare skin, absent all the dark armour and leathers, rippled with muscles and dark ink—and scars. There must be hundreds of them. Jagged, smooth, short, and long scars crisscross the captain’s broad chest and arms. Silvery lines haphazardly overlap intricately placed dark lines of swirling onyx. I find myself mesmerized by the delicate patterns before smartly coming to my senses.

I remind myself to focus, shaking my head to clear it.

He’s clean—or, well, cleaner than he’d been last night. The dirt and blood of battle washed away. His hair is actually dark blond, like wild gold threaded with shadow. It’s braided neatly back from his face, tied at the nape of his neck with a leather cord. Gone is the war paint that adorned the shaved side of his skull yesterday.

Wrenching my eyes away from the captain, I scan the tent, finding his armour hanging on the chair by the table, not quite polished but free of dirt and blood.

I chew my lip, trying to decide what to do.

The formidable captain of the Kovarian army is asleep and defenseless in his pallet before me.

I haven’t moved a muscle since catching sight of him in that bed. Too afraid a single step, or gods, even a breath, will wake the sleeping monster.

I’m shocked that he would sleep here, inside this tent, without even tying me up. He likely thought I’d remain unconscious longer. Perhaps arrogance will be his downfall.

My pulse quickens as my gaze falls on his pile of weapons, left out, right there in the open, by his bed. They’re practically begging me to take them.