Harthon was silent for a moment, likely contemplating whether or not he should retaliate. Then he lightly grunted—in anger or surprise, I couldn’t tell—and reached for my waist. Self-preservation had me stepping back, but he caught me easily. A second later, I was planted on the saddle.
No retaliation, then.
I’d just swung a leg over when the seat shifted and heat swamped me from behind, curbing the chill that hammered my cloak. I slid back into his lap, despising the contact as I sat ramrod straight. When we entered the city yesterday, I may have leaned into his body, but that brief reliance was over.
Harthon whistled, the sound like that of a bird, and the group began moving. A hand reached around and tugged the front of my hood down even more before returning to the reins.
I could have done that, you oaf.
No townspeople appeared as we left the small city, and as the gray sky lightened, we trekked into the wilderness. I kept the hood up for warmth as the breeze quickened, dropping the temperature. The tree-studded earth slowly gave way to expansive fields of long, yellow grass that turned back into woods before appearing again. Some of the fields contained small villages filled with thatched-roof homes that breathed smoke from early morning fires. They were the same type of small towns that Koerlyn had terrorized, the same type that I was from.
Where Merelda was.
A band of pressure cinched around my chest as I thought of her, of what she was thinking and how she fared. I’d been gone for nearly a week. She probably thought I was dead. She might even be grieving. Marsik would be helping her, sure, but he didn’t care for her in the way I did. Merelda was old, having found me when she was far past child-bearing age, and daily tasks pained her more than she’d ever admit.
She needed a loving caretaker, not a drunken brother. She needed me. But I was so, so far away, and getting home—it would take at least a week, and likely much longer than that. I’d have to not only escape Harthon and his men but evade Koerlyn, too.
Heartache clogged my throat as the hours passed. I did my best to catalog our surroundings and track our direction. Each village we passed was a potential shelter for when I did finally run. I studied each field of yellow grass and every patch of wooded terrain, mentally marking odd formations and memorable landmarks. With so much monotony, it was difficult.
We crossed from yet another field into the shelter of the woods, and Harthon pulled us to a stop. “We’ll take a short rest here. Drink and eat. After this, we ride until we’re at the edge of the valley,” he announced to his men.
He dropped to the ground as I brought my right leg over the saddle. His hands found the space beneath my ribs and set me on my feet with surprising care. When he reached for his saddlebag, I turned, searching for a private place to relieve myself. I stepped away from the horse and toward the trees—
A hand seized my wrist in a firm grip.
My cry was instantaneous as I whirled around, white-hot pain radiating up my arm.
Harthon’s eyes widened. He immediately released me. I snatched the throbbing limb back, cradling it to my chest. Tears burned my eyes as I gasped.
Understanding registered on his face, quickly followed by a flash of anger. “Why are those not covered?” he demanded, taking a heavy step forward.
“I meant to—”
“Youmeantto? Meaning to do something doesn’t stop infection. You know that, right?” In his low voice, the words were nearly a growl.
Instinct had me moving back. Harthon caught me easily, grabbing my bicep and hauling me toward him. I threw my weight back. His hold didn’t waver. The grip wasn’t bruising, but restrained power vibrated in those fingers that held my limb.
I stilled as his other hand locked onto my forearm and lifted, bringing the inflamed wound into view. His eyes lowered as he examined it, and an insane part of me noted how long his eyelashes were. It was a strange thing, for such a brutal man to have lovely eyelashes.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You didn’t wash them, either one, did you?”
“No,” I answered on a breath.
“Why?” His attention left my wrist to focus on me.
The truth made me sound like a coward, but I couldn’t think of any excuse. “It was too raw. I meant to do it another time.”
He didn’t scoff like I thought he would. “Why didn’t you ask Callen to help you?”
I yanked back again, but he still held fast.Stupid muscles.“Callen isn’t my friend to ask favors from.”
“Friend or not, he’s capable of bandaging these.”
It was then that I noticed the quiet in the air. Harthon’s men weren’t necessarily watching, but they were certainly listening.
Screw being respectful. “Why should I trust him or any of your men to help me?”
He released my forearm but kept his hold on my upper arm. “You have a point,” he admitted, stunning the temper right out of me.
