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The last of the daylight was fading and with the right rocks in hand, Thea crouched by her handiwork and hit them together.Her whole body ached and she wanted nothing more than to lie down in the dirt and sleep, but her persistence was rewarded with sparks shooting down into the kindling. She blew air into the lit embers and, finally, it caught alight.
She stoked the fire, feeding it larger logs, ensuring it would continue to burn.
‘Who taught you how to make a fire?’ came Hawthorne’s voice as he strode into view, his bow and quivers over his shoulder, two dead hares hanging from his hand.
‘You thought I couldn’t?’
‘Why would an alchemist know how to camp in the wilderness?’
‘So you were setting me up to fail?’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘Who taught you?’
‘None of your business.’
Evander had taught her, but Thea would have sooner walked barefoot on the hot coals than tell the Warsword as much. She watched as he skinned the hares and speared them on two long sticks, balancing them over the flames. Soon, the aroma of roasting game had Thea’s mouth watering.
‘I’m going to wash,’ Hawthorne announced, lighting a torch and leaving her to rotate the meat.
Soon, Thea heard splashes from the riverbank, warmth flooding her at the thought of seeing those broad shoulders stripped bare, at imagining the formidable Warsword without his armour. She licked her lips, her chest tightening. Nearby, the Hand of Death was undressed and dripping wet.
Her traitorous eyes glanced towards the river, where she saw a flash of tattooed skin beneath the moonlight. Even from afar, she could see that every inch of him was corded with hard muscle —
Idiot, she berated herself, forcing her attention back to the meal and turning the roasting hares with more vigour thannecessary. Whatever physical reaction she was having to the Warsword was just that:physical, and she was more than capable of separating her mind from the rest. There was a certain beauty to his brutality and that was all, she told herself. Though her reasoning didn’t stop her imagining that powerful body carving through the water, nor did it stop her recalling the imprint of his hands on her waist.
Hawthorne returned to the camp, the ends of his hair dripping as he swept it up and tied it back in a knot. ‘The meat will keep a little longer on the fire if you want to freshen up.’
Thea nodded, hoping he didn’t notice her flushed cheeks. She took the torch he offered and fled, utterly mortified by her own thoughts.
The water was icy and Thea bit back a yelp as she dipped her bare foot in. But there was nothing for it, she was filthy and she doubted she’d be able to sleep smelling as bad as she did. She made quick work of peeling off her pants and shirt, already regretting that she’d have to put them back on over clean skin. She only had two changes of clothes and she needed to be presentable for the king’s feast in a few days’ time.
Naked, she waded in the shallows, shivering as she rubbed away the dust and sweat from the road. She wished she had thought to bring a bar of soap, but water would have to do for now.
The hair on her nape stood up, goosebumps rushing over her skin. She glanced back to camp, where she could see the flicker of the campfire. Hawthorne was there, staring into the flames. But almost immediately, he seemed to sense her eyes on him and his head snapped up, his attention locking onto her across the distance.
Face flaming, Thea turned away, wrestling her clothes over her wet, tingling skin and muttering a string of curses to herself. She needed to pull herself together.
When she trudged back to camp, Hawthorne handed her a portion of roast hare.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. The meat was rich and succulent, and she had to suppress the urge to moan in satisfaction as she bit into it.
She stole glances at the Warsword as she ate, unable to shake the feeling that sharing a meal before a campfire with him was something few experienced. His gaze slid to hers, sensing her attention.
‘What?’ he said.
‘What’s it like?’ Thea heard herself ask.
‘You’ll have to be more specific.’
‘Being a Warsword. Being the youngest Warsword in history? What’s it like?’
Hawthorne wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and took a long swig from his flask.
‘Full of adventure?’ Thea prompted. ‘Glory?’
He gave a dark laugh. ‘There’s a lot more adventure and glory when you’re not on escort duty.’
