She pulled away so that she could see him clearly. His eyes were narrowed, his shoulders bunched, scales flickering once more, and her heart dropped. “We are going to rescue Val, aren’t we?”
“Well,” he started and then paused.
“What do you mean, ‘well’?” she hissed, scrambling off his lap and standing, rigid with outrage.
He rose too, looking down at her but not answering. His angry frown was back. Gods, how much she hated that closed-off look of bitterness and cynicism. He’d been quiet and reserved as a boy—with everyone except Val—but not hard and mistrusting like he was now.
“I thought you believed me!” Her voice had risen, and she hated how much it sounded like a child wailing.
“I do,” he answered curtly. “I believe that you genuinely think—”
She didn’t give him a chance to continue. “Gods. I’ve gone from being a treacherous liar to a complete idiot. Too stupid to know whether my brother is a traitor. Too brainless to compare Val’s behavior to Grendel’s.”
His frown deepened, but he still didn’t answer, just looked down at her, jaw clenched. She refused to be intimidated by the way he was standing over her.
That woman, the one that played safe and tried to be good for everyone else, was gone. She had died in the flames that destroyed her home. The long night alone on the pier had only reinforced it. Now she would fight. Fight Tristan. Fight Ballanor. Fight them all if she had to.
She crossed her arms and glared back up at him. “I won’t leave Val to die. You have to make a choice—trust me, or hand me back to Grendel.”
Tristan clasped his hands behind his back, his scales flickering angrily up his neck once more as he replied in a controlled voice, “Nim, you don’t understand—”
Gods. She did understand. She understood completely. How could she have been so stupid as to think that he felt anything for her? That he would genuinely want to help her.
She stepped backward, horrified and betrayed, wanting nothing more than to get away from him.
She caught her foot on a tangled root and almost fell, would have fallen if Tristan hadn’t put out a strong hand and caught her. But she shook him off, snarling, “Don’t touch me!”
He jerked his hand back as if burned, and she took the opportunity to turn her back on him and walk away. Chin in the air, shutting her anguish away under a thick layer of rage.
Chapter Eight
How the fuckhad he gone, in less than a minute, from sitting quietly with his arms full of lovely, soft woman to this?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a woman like that. Maybe he never had. Her body had been so delicate and trusting against his, her breath warm against his skin. For the first time in weeks, longer maybe, he’d felt something move against the brittle shell over his soul.
The need to hold her there, protect her and keep her safe, had risen in a rush that almost overwhelmed him. His beast has been completely focused on her, convinced that it had found… something… as it urged him to hold her. To get as close to her as possible.
He had told himself not to touch her, not to give in to that blinding need to feel her skin against his—and then he’d found himself lifting her into his lap anyway. And for a minute, it had been perfect. Exactly what he had been missing without even knowing it.
And yet, somehow, it had only taken a few seconds to all go to shit. Now he watched as Nim stalked out of the woods in front of him, her furious hurt battering him in waves.
He followed more slowly, keeping an eye out for any danger, angry with himself, but also with her. She was being bloody fucking unreasonable.
It was obvious that she was innocent—there was no way he would hand her back to Grendel now. But how could he keep her safe if she rushed straight back to Kaerlud and into the arms of the Blues that filled the capital? All for a man who might well deserve to be exactly where he was.
Nim was convinced of Val’s innocence; but she was a good, loyal person who would never abandon her brother. And she was protected enough to think that everyone was like her. She didn’t know what living through a war did to people. Fuck, she hardly even knew her brother after all the years he’d been away.
Still, there was a tiny, horrified voice inside him that wondered. What if he had been wrong all this time? If he had not left the palace too quickly to speak to Val after the king’s death, might he have learned something that could have explained what had happened that day?
He was disrupted from following the thought any further by the sound of Nim shouting. He broke into the dappled sunlight of the road to see her standing belligerently in front of Tor.
The only Apollyon in the Hawks, Tor was not quite as tall as the rest of the squad, but he was still at least four inches taller than Nim. And significantly broader. His arms, as thick as her thighs, were currently folded over his chest so that the red and black tattoos marking his family heritage stood stark against his black uniform.
Nim was loudly insisting that Tor follow up on his threat and take her to her brother, with graphic reference to the size of Tor’s manhood if he failed to do as he’d promised. Thimbles were mentioned. As was honor.
Tristan had honestly never seen Tor look so disconcerted. Around him, the men were not even trying to conceal their smirks, and a strange feeling filled him. A feeling of pride in this fierce woman. Of genuine amusement as he watched her intimidate his grumpiest soldier.
He felt his lips twitch but carefully controlled himself. He had a good idea that laughing would not go down well—even though it was Tor he was laughing at.
