The temperature plummeted abruptly, and one of the rebels took a quivering breath before all three of them went limp in their chairs, eyes wide in empty terror as they died.
The darkness retreated, sated for now as it slunk back inside her. She faced Vane, her mind blank and her hands numb and tingling.
“Now what?” she said, her voice flat.
He looked vaguely pained, and she did not know why. She had done what he asked.
“You’re going to hate me for this before you thank me,” he muttered before stepping forward and crushing her body to his chest.
She didn’t realize how cold she was until she was pressed up against the blazing heat of his skin. It started to melt the numbness overtaking her body and mind. Her psyche had frozen emotion out of necessity, but now that the task was done and heat was flooding her once more, she let out a choked gasp as it all came crashing back down and she realized what she had done.
“There it is,” he muttered.
“I killed them,” she rasped. “Just like that.”
Vane nodded, his chin brushing the top of her head. “Just like that.”
“I hate you,” she choked out, still held in his tight embrace.
“You should get some rest,” he said, lips moving against the top of her head.
He didn’t let go of her immediately, but when he did, he moved slowly. For a fraction of a second, their faces were close enough to touch, and Vane’s hands tightened on her back. Time grew sluggish, the moments sticky between them as she stared into his eyes. But then, he looked away, giving her just enough clarity to step back.
“I suppose this doesn’t earn me a break in the morning?” she said wearily, knowing the answer already.
He flexed his left hand, running his gloved thumb over his pointer finger. The movement almost seemed like a reflex.
“No. We need to make sure you’re ready. There isn’t time for breaks.”
She sighed. “Right. My ‘survival.’” She brushed past him and added, “Next time, just say the truth. I need to live for the king, and I’m only allowed to do so because of my usefulness.”
“We all have a place in this war, Soren,” was the last thing he said before she left.
Princess Cion was thankfully asleep again by the time Soren returned to the tent. As she laid down, exhaustion overcame her before she could even think to worry about the coming dreams.
“This was a bad idea.”
A few paces away, the man stood. She had returned to the field in a blind panic nearly an hour ago now, blood in her eyes and sobs catching in her throat. He had been there, just as he had promised, catching her and murmuring soft comforts.
He hadn’t demanded retribution as soon as he had seen the blood, even if she was entirely sure he had wanted to. It was what any god would have done—become hell-bent on revenge—but he had been more concerned about her. Bloodlust came second. The way that made her feel was dangerous, as dangerous as the fact that he had lived in her head all the days she was gone.
“We both know how dangerous this is,” he finally said, pulling back just slightly to look at her. “Are you going to keep returning and regretting it, or will you just walk away again?”
She sighed sharply and stepped back. “You make me sound cold.”
“You are anything but, goddess.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you knew who I really was.”
His worn leather boots crunched on the ground as he moved closer to her. She looked around at the field, the crop surviving surprisingly well in Aren’s climate. She wondered if the man knew it was because of him. Magic had a presence living things tended to flock to.
“I know enough,” he said firmly, lifting her chin to look up at him.
A single, silver-hued tear ran down her cheek before he brushed it away. She felt shaky, whispering her confession. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.”
His small smile was infuriating. “So you did miss me.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?”
