I tense.
My hands clasp onto the bend of my knees, legs folded into a rigid basket, and I dig my fingers into myself, hard.
The warrior’s voice is cold, indifferent, “Did he do this to you?”
My mind is mush. “Who?”
“The guard.”
I blink, catching up to the place we were before I lost my footing and my fucking mind.
“No. I think… He was going to kill me, maybe, or just capture me. But I…”
Shame swells in me, a bubble of sickly self-loathing. I shut my words down, fast.
Ice flickers to me.
“I…” The shame turns my face an ugly shade of red. “There was another person running—and I pointed him out… so I could hide.”
I hate it.
I hate his stare, how strong and steady it is, unflinching, but piercing too, like he’s reaching into my soul and rummaging around for something interesting.
I hate his touch on my neck, the tingling sensations it sends unravelling through me to my worming gut.
I hate that I think it, for a moment, how lovely his face is, chiselled from marble—
I hatehim.
An ugly storm churns in my stomach.
As if feeling it, his hand leaves my neck—but his stare doesn’t waver.
It’s a blizzard aimed right at me.
My toes curl in my socks.
“You did that to your friend.” He speaks with certainty. No room for doubt or negotiation. “Em-ah-lee.”
Chills run down my spine.
My lips suck inwards, and I bite down on them, hard. I drop my head, as if to hide myself from his steady, piercing stare. As if to hide myself from that truth too ugly to face.
I divert, “I need my inhaler.”
If he senses the lie, reads it on the heat of my cheeks, then he doesn’t call it out.
He says, “You need a lot for a ward who lives in my patience.”
My throat bobs.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t speak.
I don’t even let myself think.
A curt breath mists at his face before he’s reaching into a pocket on the thigh of his leathers. From there, he draws out the little blue plastic inhaler—and tosses it at me.
