I can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much.
I bolt to my feet, pressing a hand over my heart, as if that might soothe its incessant pounding.
“I—I’m still going to marry your brother, of course. Archaic traditions or not.”
“Of course.” His voice is stiff.
“Maybe I can change his worldview with my ferocious temper.”
My lips curve into a weak smile. Zevayr’s gaze drops to my mouth. The heat in his eyes chases away the chill in my bones, leaving behind a searing heat.
And it’ll burn me if I’m not careful.
“No more pretend first watches for me,” I stumble over my words. “I’m going to sleep.” Before he can answer, I pivot on my heel, practically running to the blanket, and nestle myself beneath his cloak.
When he finally joins me, I pretend to sleep.
He pretends he doesn’t notice.
Chapter Twelve
Timeblursaswetravel, each day flowing seamlessly into the next. Slowly, the landscape changes, daily subtle shifts that culminate in an entirely new world.
It starts with the snow. It no longer blankets the ground in endless, blinding sheets, but lingers in scattered patches beneath shady clusters of shrubs and prickly groundcover.
It’s how I know we’re finally out of Tundrayn. Technically, we’re in Arbinj, though there’s a large Rebellion presence here. The air grows warmer, enough for thin fog to cling to the earth in ghostly tendrils, rising between the slick stones.
Zevayr is sharpening his daggers when I return to our campsite after relieving myself. I sit beside him, and he wordlessly hands me breakfast—leftover rabbit meat.
“Look what I found.” My voice brims with excitement as I press a handful of bright red berries into his palm. “Are they safe to eat?”
He quirks a half-smile at my hopeful expression. When he pops one into his mouth, I nearly sag with relief. I’m sick of greasy rabbit meat and handfuls of nuts.
“Lingonberries,” he says. He eats another, then hands me the rest. I pluck one and chew it—Tides, it’start. My mouth twists, eyes watering at the overpowering flavor. I eat another one, and it’s just as sour.
Zevayr chuckles at my expression. “Tundraynis are such babies.” Before I can prepare a sharp retort, he asks, “What food do you miss most?”
“Fire-roasted trout,” I say immediately. My mouth waters at the memory of the flaky, buttery fish. “What about you?”
“Hmm,” he muses. His eyes look bright. Happy. I hate that I notice. “Mushroom stew.”
My brows furrow. “Mushroom?”
“It’s a type of fungus—grows in the ground.” He laughs at my horrified expression. “They’re safe to eat. Delicious, even. When we get to Arbinj, I’ll make sure the first thing you eat is a big bowl of mushroom stew.”
Quicker than lightning, his face goes blank.
“What?” I bite my lip. I’m not sure what I did to upset him.
Zevayr busies himself with his dagger as if sharpening its blade is his sole purpose in life. “Nothing. Just … my brother will probably want you to try steak first.”
“Steak?”
“Yeah. Comes from cows.”
“Is it good?”
A shrug is all I get.
