I’m huddled by the fire, wrists burning, shoulders sore. My eyes fall to my bound hands—my finger is bare. The Dark Commander took his betrothal ring along with my necklace. I ignore the sting that pierces my heart.
That’s the least of my worries.
Because my husband stalks over, lowering himself beside me.
I hate the way my body still responds to his proximity—I catch myself leaning closer to him before I remember that I despise him. When I recoil, his scowl deepens. He tears off a strip of dried meat and holds it to my lips. Grimacing, I turn away.
“Eat,” he commands gruffly. The firelight casts dancing shadows across his face.
“Untie me. I’ll feed myself.”
“No.” He presses the meat to my mouth again, and I snarl, flinching away from his hands.
Zev eyes me for a beat, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
One of the soldiers, a tall, lean man with dark eyes says, “I can try to feed her, sire, if you’re worried about her reserves. A healer would be useful if one of us is injured.”
A beat.
My husband looks like he wants to murder him. “No,” he growls.
My stomach rumbles in protest.
“Wait,” I say to the soldier. “I’m very thirsty.”
The soldier hesitates for a second, then grabs a canteen, heading toward me.
He never makes it.
Like lightning, the Dark Commander storms over and snatches the canteen from his hand.
“Don’t go near her.” His voice is venomous, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.
The soldiers’ eyes are on me, even as they pretend not to watch.
With a long-suffering sigh, Zev strides back.
“Don’t try anything, waterwielder,” he hisses, face stony as he crouches to my level. I glare at him, holding up my iron-bound wrists. Idiot. Did he forget how iron works?
He tilts the canteen against my mouth, and I gulp down the water as quickly as I can manage before he changes his mind. There’s a strange expression on his face as he watches me. I wait for him to insult me, liken me to a fish or something equally stupid, but he doesn’t. He lets me drink my fill in tense silence.
When I finish, he grabs me by the arm and hauls me up.
“What—”
I don’t get my question out. My husband drags me over to a tree and forces me to the ground, hands heavy on my shoulders.
Hot anger courses through my veins, and even still, a spark skitters across my skin where he touches me.
I hate myself. I hate him.
“I could run,” I snap, trying to burn him with my glare.
He smirks. “Try it. I’ll drag you back by your pretty hair.”
Before I can respond, he slams his jaw shut and storms back to the fire.
My faithless eyes linger on the stretch of his tunic across the breadth of his shoulders, even as scorching fury simmers in my belly.
