The general glares at me. Quickening his pace, he says, “There is a winter hunting lodge close by. It will do until morning.”
I don’t even want to argue, and that’s a bad sign. A dry place to rest while I regain my strength is the best I can hope for. My head feels like it’s made of steel as it lulls and tips against the general’s shoulder. My forehead rests in the crook of his neck and under all the ice of his exterior I never expected the male to feel so warm.
“Foc,” he says under his breath, and a sharp pang slices through my gut, hollowing out my stomach.
I ignore the sinking feeling and his aversion to my skin against his own. I can’t bring myself to care or summon the strength to fight my way out of his arms. He quickens his pace, turning up a steep incline of large boulders covered in years of overgrowth and moss. I close my eyes, clenching my jaw to stop my teeth from clacking against each other.
I’m vaguely aware of the loud crack of splintering wood as he kicks open the cabin door. The force bounces it off the wall and it swings closed behind him, latching shut. I feel a strange kinship with the latch for remaining strong in defiance of his brute strength and demands.
The cold wall of the cabin presses against my back when he eases me out of his arms and onto the floor. I immediately regret the loss of his warmth when he unthreads his arm from under my knees, only to imagine slamming my blade into that same arm when he pinches my chin between his fingers and rattles my head.
“Open your eyes,” he demands harshly, “Take off your boots. We have to get you out of those clothes and into something dry. Either you do it, or I will.”
I glare at the male, an act I’m not even sure he notices before rushing out into the rain. A distant and quickly fading part of me knows he’s right. I need to get dry. I need to get warm.
My fingers tangle with thick laces, my hands are numb and each attempt to grasp the cords feels like a monumental effort in futility. I’ve never been more annoyed about knotting my laces in lieu of a simple tidy bow, a habit I picked up when I began to spar and a loose lace rarely meant anything but defeat.
The general bursts into the cabin with an arm full of dry logs, his frown deepening when his eyes fall to the boots still laced securely around my calves. He stacks the logs in the stone fireplace, produces a flint and steel from his satchel, and strikes it to the kindling. No sooner do I hear the woosh of the flame than I feel him hurriedly working my boots free of my legs.
“You’ll warm up soon,” he reassures me, pulling the boots from myfeet.
“I’m fine. I’m not cold,” I say, suppressing a shiver.
“Yes, you are,” he growls, “You’re freezing.”
He hooks my waist, and I wince at the sharp pain in my side as he lays me in front of the fire. He’s on his feet, digging through a large chest in a dark corner of the room before I realize he’s even left my side. A thick quilt is in his hands when he returns and that too he places close to the flames.
He kneels down beside me, the line of his jaw growing tense as he reaches for the laces of my leather pants. My head spins and I can’t even form the words to protest before he’s sliding the pants down my legs. I have just enough time to grasp the hilt of the tiny blade sheathed at my thigh before he removes the leathers, throwing them over the back of a nearby chair.
He lifts me into a sitting position, gathering the fabric of my dress, bunching it around my waist. It’s all too much, too fast, and raising too many memories and feelings I’d rather leave in the graveyard of my heart.
Light flickers in the window and my arm snaps forward bringing the blade to his throat before the answering crack of thunder reverberates through the dimming sky. His brows shoot up, his hands stilling at my waist. I must look like a frightened animal with claws drawn and teeth bared by the way he takes me in.
It was the first lesson I’d been taught when I learned to hunt, never approach a wounded animal. They are unpredictable, full of lethal desperation.
His face settles back into his usual glower. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Don’t,” I rasp.
He searches my eyes and pins me with a stare. “If you fall asleep in that dress, you might not wake up.”
“I’m f-fine.” My teeth chatter.
“You’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard I can practically hear your bones rattling,” he growls, “Use that blade, or don’t, but I won’t sit here and watch you die for nothing more than your modesty.”
I make no move to take the blade from his throat, and he softens his voice. “Look, I’m keeping my eyes right here.”
He holds my gaze as his fingers begin working the rest of the fabricinto a pool around my waist. He slips the dress over my head, peeling the sleeves off my arms, leaving me with the dagger when he has every reason and every chance to take it from me. We both know I’m in no condition to overpower him. He unfurls the quilt and bundles me up inside it.
“I’m just checking for wounds,” he says, waiting until I give him a shallow nod before he does a quick inspection of my legs, torso, and neck.
He’s careful to keep the blanket draped in a way that doesn't reveal more than necessary, and he only lingers briefly by the cut beneath my breast.
“Nothing life threatening,” he says as he stands.
The tremors of my body grow painful, the intense heat of the fire scalding me. Despite the cold and the pain, I’ve never been more desperate for sleep in my life. I lay my head against the wooden floor with only the heavy quilt as a pillow, drifting off quickly to the sound of a steady sheet of rain pelting the roof.
A cold burst of air licks my skin into gooseflesh and the chill shocks me from my sleep. I glare at the general as he pulls back my covers, relieved of his own soaked clothing.
