Page 59 of Ravenrose

I give her one more hard look before leaving her there, going to grab the saddlebags I left sitting by the fire. I scoop them up, slinging one over my shoulder before heading back her way.

She’s still standing where I left her, rigid and rubbing at her wrists. So she can listen. However, her eyes dart around the small clearing nervously, as if searching for the best means of escape.

She hasn’t tried to run. Yet.

“Over there.” I point toward a collection of fallen trees at the center of the clearing. Closer to my men, but still far enough away from the tree line that she can’t just slip away into the forest.

The princess doesn’t move, glancing uncertainly between the logs and me.

“Go,” I order. The words come out like a snarl.

Testing my ever-loving patience, she still hesitates, weighing her options.

Ultimately, she appears to decide it’s not worth the fight and finally moves, taking her time and stalking over to the logs. She tosses her hair over her shoulder like she wasn’t just dragged, against her will, behind a horse for half the day.

Gods, help me. My fists tighten around the saddlebag straps as I resist the urge to grab her by the throat.

Frowning at the moss-covered log, she sits. I sit down next to her. Noticing my proximity, she nearly falls off the log, scrambling like a maniac—trying to get away from me.

I sniff to disguise my chuckle and pull out my knife, then turn my attention to the saddlebag I carried over, feeling her body tense at the sight of the blade. I spin it once in my hand, relishing her discomfort before pulling out an apple.

She shivers so hard, I can feel the sharp vibration through the log beneath us. A cold front has moved in with the night air. And even if her clothes weren’t torn, she’s not dressed for it. Not even close.

Using my knife, I slice through the fruit in my hand, eating slices of the apple quietly, feeling the weight of her gaze as I do. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, and the silence sits heavily between us. Once finished, I pocket the knife, turning to toss the apple core into the woods before rising and turning to head back over to the rest of my men without another word to her.

I'd taken about two steps when⁠—

“Wait.”

I stop and turn back to look at her.

She looks just about as surprised as I feel at the sound of her voice.

It’s hoarse, threaded with fatigue, the volume of it just above that of a whisper. She swallows hard, as if the words cost her something—pride, maybe.

“Do you have any water?” She forces herself to meet my eyes, while hating every second.

Good. She’s breaking down for me.

Even though her green eyes burn with all the words she’s not saying.

It pisses me off. She pisses me off.

I reach down, unhooking the water pouch from my belt.

I unscrew it and start drinking. Slowly. Never once breaking eye contact. Her gaze tracks every little movement.

When I’m finished, I replace the cap, hook it back to my belt, then let it drop against my hip and watch her face fall with it.

Her gaze lifts to mine again.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

There are a hundred questions I could ask her. Information I need… information I could force out—take against her will—if I apply just the right kind of incentives. But right now, all I want is her name.

She looks away. I’m sure she’s recognized the game already; she’s more clever than she looks.

Water for answers.