Fear
When she called my name, she hadn’t spoken with scorn or irritation or fury. I’d expected a reprieve from her hatred when she was coming around my fingers.
The last time she said my name should have been different. Back to anger. Instead, she’d asked me easily, “Fear, do you think anyone…heard?”
She’d had a red flush in her cheeks, her eyes bright and alive as they met mine. She’d said my name as if nothing between us had changed.
She would hate me again in the morning. Perhaps I deserved it.
Regardless.
The worst thing about Cara’s lies was that she was genuine, in both her anger and her tenderness.
She did not even intend the deceit that pierced me through.
As if she still saw me as she had when we met in Stonehaven.
Thirty-Five
Cara
The next morning, Fear left me to sleep too long, and I woke with that guilty sense that it was midmorning, and I had left others to carry my chores.
I quickly washed in the basin he had set out for me, the kettle of hot water beside it fresh and steaming. Fear would not have let someone else into our tent when I was naked beneath the quilts. Somehow it was most irritating to imagine him carrying in the basin, gathering towels and soap, warming the kettle. Thoughtful bastard. It was a form of my anger that was ridiculous, and I knew it.
Then I dressed in a fresh tunic and leggings, boots and knives before stumbling out.
“Good morning, my love,” he said, expansively. A bit of pretend for the camp. “Did you have sweet dreams?”
There was a mischievous twinkle in his gaze. I should not have slept with him, this man who was the master of my nightmares and, apparently, of my dreams too.
I could not tell him to fuck off, not when someone might hear, so I settled for taking the cup of tea out of his hand. “We have work to do.”
“Yes. Your mother made that clear.” He gestured toward the far end of the row of tents. Probably far enough that she could not have heard the night before.
“You should have woken me.” My mother hated laziness. Not that it mattered. “We’ve so much to do.”
“You seemed too content to wake.” He was a smug bastard. I couldn’t entirely blame him, given I had kissed him and ground against his lap, and gods, I wanted to die. “It is going to be interesting getting to know your family. Who made you the way you are.”
If my mother liked him, I was going to die, for sure. Just to spite them all.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be too strange if Fear’s wife occasionally told him to fuck off. I could get away with it without ruining our cover, couldn’t I?
“Where are we doing it?” My hand went to the knife on my belt.
“Always with the knives,” he noted. “I asked Corbyn for a tent. He has us set up already.”
“Why did you let me sleep so long?” I was being unreasonable and grouchy, and I knew it. I pressed my lips together.
“You needed rest. There’s no shame in taking it.” He always sounded so sure of himself, though he didn’t need as much sleep as I did.
I only saw the rebels around us moving through the midmorning sun of the camp on various chores. None of Bismyth. “Where is everyone?”
“Bismyth has a mission from the queen. I sent the rest to join Asrael.”
The queen would want revenge. She had freed us from the Trials, despite my delinquent dragon, for a purpose. “Are they safe?”
“No.”
