With a shake of his head, Zane fell back, riding next to her.
He’d charm her. That was what Zane did with women. I’d seen it a hundred times. I’d watched as he picked out theprettiest girl. Then he’d lower his voice as if every word he uttered was meant for her alone. She’d laugh, dazzled that he was taking an interest. His eyes would twinkle as if they shared a special secret, just the two of them. Then he’d touch her hand, and one of the many sparks that danced in his blood would give her a mild shock. Pleasant. Surprising. Intimate.
If we were at a tavern, he’d have Haven rolling in the sheets in no time.
But we weren’t.
And Haven wasn’t some fare-thee-well wench.
He insisted she was ours. Destined. Our future. Our fate.
Well, fate could fuck itself. And Zane could fuck Haven. I’d be keeping my distance.
Chapter
Forty-Eight
HAVEN
Keeping my eyes open became impossible. My chin bounced off my chest, jerking me awake. Again.
Zane shifted in his saddle, angling toward me with obvious concern. “You all right?”
“Tired.” I wasn’t used to riding so far. My thighs ached, my butt throbbed, and my back screamed in pain.
“We’ll find a place to stop.”
“Are you kidding?” Remy’s attitude was the opposite of Zane’s. Harsh. Sneering. “We need to get out of this forest.”
“We need to rest.” Zane meant me but was nice enough not to say it.
“And if she attracts more nians?”
“That wasn’t Haven’s fault. Besides, she handled them easily last time.”
Using so much magic was one of the reasons I was fading now. I doubted I could do it again. But I was so desperate to get off Buttercup’s back that I kept my lips firmly sealed.
“There.” Zane pointed toward aclearing.
“We’re only an hour from the village we passed on our way to the border.” Remy jerked his reins, making his horse sidestep. “Sorry, Shamba,” he murmured, stroking the animal’s neck. “I say we keep going.”
Two impulses warred within me. An epic breakdown would be cathartic. But running a sword through Remy might feel even better.
I was only teasing myself. I couldn’t do either. Because if I allowed myself to cry, I might not stop. As for Remy meeting the pointy end of my favorite dagger, I suspected Zane would object. He was looking at me now, his face drawn with worry.
“He’s right, Haven. That village is an hour’s ride. Can you make it?”
Too much had been piled upon me in too short a time, and my shoulders bowed beneath the weight of Gladys’s expectations, exhaustion, death, and the very real pain in my ass from riding. Not trusting my voice, I nodded.
We rode on, and I daydreamed about a toasty blaze in a stone hearth, a bowl of hearty stew, warm socks on my feet, and a hot bath waiting for me when I finished my supper. Who could ask for anything more?
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Forty minutes. They’d said an hour. I couldn’t ask how much longer without sounding like a spoiled child. But oh, how I wanted to. Instead, I asked, “What’s that smell?” The air carried a trace of smoke. Was a roaring fire just around the next bend?
“Smoke.” Remy’s dismissive tone rubbed my last nerve. Perhaps after my bath, I’d teach him some manners.
Zane urged his horse to a canter, and Buttercup followed without my prompting her.
When we rounded the final turn, I pressed my free hand to my lips. The village they’d promised lay in ruins. A few skeletaltimbers remained. Blackened chimneys marked where houses once stood. Here and there, a burned wall looked ready to crash to the earth. Ash covered the snow.
