There was no honor that went with breaking an enemy.
I studied each position of the blades. Lined with precision across the tabletop, I counted five in all, but the Sentry kept his sword sheathed on his waist.
Should he lunge for me, it was possible I could slip around him and take hold of one of the small blades. Then what? I could throw a knife with accuracy, but if I managed to land a strike, Roark wore his leather jerkin, vambraces, and thick woolen trousers.
Not to mention, the man was broad and nearly two heads taller. He would have me pinned beneath him in moments.
The sound of fingers snapping drew my gaze back to his.
Ashwood dropped his hand, a befuddled look on his features, as though he didn’t know what to make of me. After a breath, the Sentry opened his palm toward the mattress.
I swallowed the fear and shook my head.
He arched a brow, but turned to the table. Parchment tore and a few scratches of a charcoal pen returned a note.
Sleep here.
Blood pounded in my skull. “I won’t let you touch me.”
With a throaty scoff, he shook his head and added to his missive.
I’ve no plans to touch you. You will sleep here. We move at first light, so rest while you can.
A ruse. A bit of a false reprieve.
The hair lifted on the back of my neck; I skirted to one side when Ashwood gathered his weapons and placed them in arabbit-fur pouch, then took up a folded linen from a basket and tossed it over his shoulder.
For a heartbeat or two, the Sentry peered at me with a touch of aggravation, then drifted toward the doorway. He held up a palm, motioning I was to remain.
“You’re not…staying here?”
He shook his head and pointed at the canvas door. I took it to mean he would remain outdoors.
Strange, but the notion of being left unattended with other Stav Guard drew out a deeper knot of fear. Brutal as he was, Roark had power in this camp. His word would be honored, and for now it seemed he wanted to be nowhere near me.
“And will you allow your men to enter?” Gods, I despised how the words trembled over my lips. The boldness I’d felt when I leveled a blade to my own throat cracked with every step away from Skalfirth.
A shadow crossed Roark’s features. I drew in a sharp breath when he crowded me near the bed until my knees struck the edge, forcing me to fall back on the mattress.
The Sentry placed his palm against my cheek. I stiffened, eyes closed. But all he did was tap my face three times.
Roark turned away in the next heartbeat and abandoned the hut.
Pulse racing, I touched where Ashwood held his hand. Three taps—his gesture for claiming something as his.
It meantmine.
A word meaning a dozen things—his to command, his to use, his to protect.
It didn’t matter, there was truth to it. Since the moment he stepped foot on the pebbled shores of Skalfirth until he turned me over to the king, I belonged to Roark Ashwood.
The hole in the cornerof the hut was hardly noticeable. Small rodents likely dug through the dirt and clay to seek refuge in the Sentry’s shelter during the frosted months. Once it was clear Ashwood would not be returning, I took to clawing at the soil.
A reckless, stupid plan. Risks of Dravens, of creatures, and of the spell casts Emi mentioned all rattled through my mind, but the moment I began, I could not stop.
I dug and dug until I slipped into a bit of frenzy.
From rain and chill to heat and damp, the soil was hardened and rough. Sharp pieces of rock and twigs scraped at my callused fingertips. I kept digging. Sweat dripped over my lashes. When I blinked, the salt slid down to my lips.
