I cross my arms over my chest. “Stop saying you’re ‘delivering’ me. I’m not goods that you’ve bartered.”
Though that’s exactly what I am.
A flash of amusement flickers through his eyes, there and gone. When he doesn’t say anything else, I stomp down, ignoring his proffered hand, and tread through ankle-deep snow toward the smaller carriage at the back of the procession.
He reaches around me—too tidesdamned close—and opens the door. The back of my neck prickles at his proximity, his heat seeping into me. I dart up the rickety stairs to escape him.
I freeze on the top step, his presence a suffocating weight at my back.
Calling it theothercarriage was misleading. My heart beats faster, thudding angrily against my ribcage. Inside the small carriage, thick iron shackles are nailed into the back walls on one side. The interior is cramped—barely enough space for one normal-sized person, let alone me and the massive stormwielder I’m wedged against.
I whirl, gripping the sides of the carriage for balance. My breath hitches—he’s closer than I thought. He stands two steps below me but still towers. I have to crane my neck to glare at him.
“This is to transport prisoners,” I seethe.
“Very observant, Princess,” Zevayr drawls, his mouth twitching. “Now, get in.”
“Absolutely not. You’re out of your tidesdamned mind if you think I’m going to let you shackle me—”
“I’m not planning to shackle you. Unless you give me a reason.” He smirks, like this is some sick joke.
I jab my finger into his chest. His eyes flare in surprise. “You willnotparade me through Arbinj like a prisoner. This is humiliating. Insulting. Improper. I can’t fathom—”
“Mayah.” The casual sound of my name on his tongue makes me flinch. “Take a breath.” His voice is low, steady—infuriatingly calm. “I’m only insisting on this carriage—this disgracefully obvious, painfully unworthy contraption—for your safety. And I won’t let you endure it alone. I’ll be right there with you, crammed into this pathetic excuse for transport, which, as you’ve noted, is better suited for convicts instead of princesses.” He holds my gaze, then gestures behind me. “Once we reach Arbinj, we’ll switch back into the royal carriage. You’ll enter the capital with all the pomp and respect you deserve. But for now…”
A beat.
“Get.In.”
I can’t think of a sharp retort, so I pivot quickly, my hair whipping his face, and perch onto the wooden bench with all the dignity I can muster after being subjected to that condescending speech. Zevayr follows me inside, his knees bumping mine as he folds his massive body down onto the opposite bench.
I narrow my eyes at him in a scorching glare, but the tidesdamned man just tidesdamned smirks at me.
A disgusted scoff claws its way through my lips. I cross my arms and stare outside the smudged window, determined not to let him goad me further.
By my estimate, we’ve been traveling for over an hour in absolute silence. My knees ache—I’ve kept my legs pressed close against the bench. Otherwise, they’d bump against the Dark Commander’s knees with every turn of the wheels.
The tidescursed man takes up so much tidescursed space.
I scowl at him, but he doesn’t notice. He hasn’t spared me a glance since we resumed the journey—his gaze fixed firmly outside the window. I’m not sure what he’s expecting to see. The landscape hasn’t changed since we left—leagues and leagues of white terrain and large, snowcapped trees.
“Why did you refuse to stay at the palace?” I ask. “It was just one night.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. He finally looks at me, then, an unreadable expression on his face.
“The ceasefire is relatively new. I didn’t want to risk staying in … hostile territory for longer than necessary.”
“A ceasefire that onlyyouhave broken.”
“So far.” He’s annoyingly calm, muscular arms crossed over his chest. “And I told you, it was an accident.”
An accident that killed dozens of Tundrayni warriors and injured at least one hundred more. The phantom stench of their burnt flesh still lingers in my nostrils.
“During the betrothal ceremony … the thunder. Was that you?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t offer anything else. Irritation simmers inside me.
“Why?” I press, leaning forward.
“I was angry.”
