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Think.
Even on the road, finding an opportunity for escape would be nearly impossible. He’d need assistance, either in the form of someone breaking into camp to free her by force or providing a sufficient distraction that he could set her free himself. But he had exactly zero allies in this. Being an enemy soldier was bad enough, but Valcotta was also the future Empress. Was the woman who’d fought against these men time and again, killing their friends, their loved ones, their commanders. Help wouldn’t come from Maridrinians.
Then who?
Mercenaries? They certainly could be bought, but likely not in so short a time period that they’d be of any use. He needed help that was already here, already available.
The Valcottans?
He sat up straight in the bath, water sloshing everywhere. The Valcottans would be desperate to get her back. If they knew she was alive and traveling by road, they’d inevitably try to rescue her.
A plan formed in his mind, and he picked up a bar of soap and set to scrubbing the sweat from his body, refusing to consider how it had gotten there. Except memories forced their way through. The devilish smile on her lips as she’d tormented him. The taste of her on his tongue as he explored her every curve. The vision of her above him, back arched and head thrown back as she climaxed.
He’d slept with Zarrah Anaphora. Heir to the Empire his own kingdom had warred against for generations.
Would he have done it if he had known the truth of who she was?
Would she?
Even as the question arose in his thoughts, he shoved it away, remembering the horror in her eyes when she’d realized who he was.
Zarrah Anaphorahatedhim, and nothing he did would change that.
The truth caused hot pain to lance through him, his hands to ball into fists, and a scream of anger and frustration and grief to rise up his throat. But Keris clenched his teeth down to silence it. No matter how she felt about him, he cared for her.Deeply.And he’d cut his own throat before he’d allow any more harm to befall her. Would do whatever it took to protect her, no matter the cost.
But for there to be any chance of his plan working, he needed General Zarrah Anaphora to trust him.
And that might be the most impossible task of all.
34
ZARRAH
Zarrah woke with a start, the scent of smelling salts heavy in her nose and a stranger bent over her.
She recoiled from his reaching hand. “Don’t touch me!”
“I am a physician to the royal family.” His tone was cool. “Stay still while I examine you, or I shall have these men hold you down. His Highness has made it quite clear that he wishes for you to survive long enough to be judged by the king, and I’ve no desire to tempt his wrath.”
His Highness. Keris.The fog in Zarrah’s brain cleared, and memories came crashing through, echoes of the Maridrinian espousing the virtues of peace juxtaposed with those of the prince ordering a man whipped to death for disobedience, her mind refusing to see them as one and the same.
Except they were.
Had it all been an elaborate ruse to capture her? Had he known who she was this entire time? Had everything he’d said been a lie?
The last was somehow the worst of all. God help her, but she’d felt alive in those moments when she’d believed she might make a difference. In those moments when she’d believed that, together, they might change the nature of this war.
In those foolish moments when she thought that it might be possible to end the fighting altogether. When her hate for her enemies had paled beneath the glow of passion she’d felt at the Maridrinian’s words. At his touch. At what he’d inspired within her.
Not the Maridrinian,a hateful voice whispered at her.Prince Keris Veliant, the son of your mother’s murderer!
Pain and nausea filled her, and Zarrah submitted to the physician’s examination even as she clawed aside her emotions in favor of thought for her path forward. For escape. Because it would be better to die trying to escape than to allow them to execute her. Better for her to die with honor than to allow them to use her against her people.
“How do you feel?” the man asked, frowning at the wound on her arm where the stitches had broken open. It ached nearly as badly as her skull, the skin around it blanched where it wasn’t streaked with blood.
“Dizzy,” she mumbled. “My head throbs.”
He hesitated, then said, “A bad concussion,” before picking up a needle and restitching her arm, then covering it with a pungent poultice and a thick bandage. When he’d finished, he said to the guards, “She needs to be kept awake, and if that isn’t possible, woken every hour. I’d say fetch me if she won’t rouse, but if that happens, nothing I can do will save her. Fresh water only, no wine. And get her cleaned up. She smells of sweat and soldier.”
