“Should we get some sleep, then?” I ask once I’m done, clearing my throat and turning back toward him. His gaze drops, fixing sharply on my bare legs.
Shit. I glance down, realizing the hem of my shirt doesn’t quite cover the marks on my upper thighs. Lamplight gleams on the silvery scars, making them look all the more vicious.
Suddenly Stark is on me, his face thunderous, backing me into the tiny corner.
“Who did this to you?”he demands ferociously, one calloused hand clamping hotly on my thigh.
Heat flashes through me, starting in my breasts and ending low, between my legs.
What the fuck?
I slap his hand away, ignoring my body’s humiliating betrayal.
“What the hell do you care?” I snap with acrid sarcasm. “Are you going toprotectme?”
Stark’s face tightens with rage, but he doesn’t back down. He crowds closer, looming over me threateningly.
“I know the marks of torture when I see them,” he growls. “Tell me who hurt you. Was it him? Your…” he pauses, sneering the word with poisonous contempt, “prince?”
Heart pounding, I stare up at him, determined not to be cowed. “Don’t you dare even talk about him. And no, he fucking didn’t.Idid.”
The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He stumbles back, his face flashing with surprise, then a string of emotions that stun me to my core: confusion, then understanding, followed swiftly by horror—or is it pain?
“You did that to yourself?” he repeats tightly.
“Yes,” I sneer. “So don’t worry, you don’t need to go sallying forth like the hero of Linsfall to ‘protect’ your favorite punching bag. Unless, of course, you’d like to take this opportunity to finally rid yourself of me.”
I plop down on the foot of the bed, facing away without waiting for an answer—or maybe just because I can’t stand seeing that look on his face.
Why is he suddenly acting like he gives a shit, after three months of torment? It’s deeply unnerving.
As I yank back the covers on the bed, Anassa’s awareness swells through the bond. She’s amused by my discomfort with Stark.
“Shut up!”I think at her, my heart hammering in my throat.
I can still feel him standing so close to me, in that narrow space to the left of the bed, watching me climb under the covers.
Thank fuck he doesn’t say anything more. After a few seconds, I hear him unpacking his bedroll and trying to wedge it into the narrow strip of floor. When the noises continue, I can’t help myself: I sit back up, glaring over at him.
“Problems?”
He turns to look at me, his gaze cold. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
From my viewpoint sitting up, I can see the issue—it’s not just that the space is so narrow. Because of the bedside table, the patch of floor isn’t actually quite long enough for Stark’s bedroll. Maybe if the asshole weren’t so damned tall.
He can sleep standing like a horse, for all I care.
Stark finishes making things fit as best he can, and settles in, halfway turned on his side and with his knees up to fit in the tiny space. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t utter a word, but it’s obvious that the position is extremely uncomfortable.
My head falls back against the headboard.
Fuck.
I don’t care if he’s comfortable. Idon’t.
It’s just that—well, heisan impressive warrior, psycho killer instincts included, even if I dislike him. And if we might be battling Siphons tomorrow to save Saela and the other kids, I want him rested and at his best.
