“Where are you taking me?”
“To the border.” I’m surprised he responds.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided.” He says it so casually, like he hasn’t decided what he’ll eat for dinner.
I swallow hard. “What did you do with his body?” I whisper.
The Dark Commander watches me with narrowed eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
I brace for his next cruel jibe—but it never comes.
The carriage jolts to a stop.
Chapter Fifty
Itshouldhavetakena full day’s ride to reach the border. I couldn’t have been knocked out for more than a few hours. There’s no time to wonder, though, because the Dark Commander looms over me, one knee braced beside my thigh on the wooden bench.
He’s so close. His scent hits me first—smoke and pine and the ghost of safety—and my traitorous lungs inhale greedily. But the image of Daak’s body crumpled on the ground flits before my eyes, lifeless because of him.
He leans over me, and my body does the unthinkable—recognizes him.
I want to crawl out of my own skin.
I hate the way my body trembles. A flush creeps up my neck, traitorous and humiliating. Why does his proximity still sear me like a brand? His exhale ghosts over my lips, and my stomach lurches—because part of me still leans toward the heat.
Part of me still wants.
And all of me hates it.
Impatient hands uncuff one wrist. The skin where the iron rested is red. He stills, eyes riveted to my skin. His lips purse, but then he fishes out another iron bracelet. It snaps around my wrist with a soft click.
The iron bites into my skin, the ache already blooming. He repeats the process with my other wrist, but he doesn’t linger this time. A rough length of rope binds my hands together.
There’s iron on my wrists and hatred in my mouth.
He grips my arm roughly and drags me from the carriage.
Sunlight lashes my face like punishment. Tall trees frame the sky, an endless sea of green across every horizon.
I squint against the brightness.
“You said we’re going to the border,” I accuse, leveling him with a glare.
“So eager to meet your fate?”
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
He nods to the carriage driver—a lanky, disheveled man who doesn’t dare look at me. With a crack of his whip, the carriage rolls away, leaving me stranded.
With my husband.
Is he going to kill me here?
Will he bother to bury my body or leave me to rot beneath the sun?
When the driver has vanished from sight, the Dark Commander drags me through the woods like a sack of meat, my feet slipping on damp, rotting leaves. I’m off balance with my hands bound, and the insufferable man hauls me along like a doll.
