His heat seeps into me like a slow, treacherous tide. Unbidden, a soft moan slips free.
I hate that it feels good.
I hate that it feels safe.
I amanythingbut safe with him. I can’t let myself forget that.
“You promised … not to … touch me,” I grumble, voice thick with exhaustion. He smells like smoke and pine.
“I take it back. I won’t touch you unless you’re about to die of your own idiocy.”
I hate him. I really do.
I’m about to say as much, but a yawn betrays me.
“Can’t have the princess of Tundrayn dying on my watch,” he murmurs.
“You said I was the princess of nothing,” I whisper into the heat of his chest.
I don’t hear if he replies. Sleep swallows the rest.
Chapter Nine
“You’retheprincessofnothing.” It’s a threat gritted out through clenched teeth. I can taste the rage on his breath when—
A groggy sigh escapes me. My bed is hard—strangely hard—beneath my back. What time is it? By the Tides, if I’m late for another council meeting, Father will—
“Did you get enough beauty sleep,Princess?” a deep voice drawls.
Tides drown me.
My blood turns to ice as yesterday’s events crash through my mind like a raging tidal wave. I yank his cloak off my face, squinting against the onslaught of sunlight.
Zevayr’s leaning against a nearby tree, arms crossed over his broad chest, glaring at me.
“I’ve been awake for hours,” he adds drily. “Hurry up and eat.” He jerks his head toward the edge of the blanket where he’s laid out dried meat and a handful of nuts. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”
With slow movements, I throw off the cloak completely and stand.
“You could have woken me,” I snap, smoothing out my tunic.
His gaze rakes me from head to toe, and I try not to shiver under his intense scrutiny. Tides, I’d slept in his arms last night. My cheeks heat, and I whirl and storm through the trees before he sees the damning redness on my face.
Arms crossed against the frigid morning air, I find a suitable spot far enough away from camp to relieve myself.
I might have frozen to death if he hadn’t noticed—and forced me to share his body heat. The thought twists something deep in my gut.
Obviously he needs me alive.
That’s all it is. I’m betrothed to his brother.
I scrub clean snow over my face, then rinse out my mouth, hoping the jarring cold will settle my racing heart.
By the time I return to camp, Zevayr is pacing the clearing, raking a violent hand through his hair. My steps must be louder than I think, because even from a distance he whirls toward me—brows drawn tight, teeth bared and ready to deliver another cutting remark.
He doesn’t disappoint.
“At the risk of repeating myself, I askagain, did they not teach you basic survival skills in Tundrayn?”
