He glances at me, then back to the path. His shoulders are stiff. “The same reason you healed the boy, I imagine.” He’s quiet for several heartbeats. His voice is rough when he speaks again.“We’ve taken so much from them. I wanted to give something back.”
Heat prickles behind my eyes, my throat cinching tight.
I don’t ask him any more questions.
I’m starting a fire at our camp for the night when a loud boom of thunder cracks through the air. A sharp yelp tears from my lips, the dried branches dropping to the leaf-ridden ground. I whirl, expecting to find a wrathful Zevayr looming behind me, poised to summon lightning.
I blink.
He’s still sitting a few paces away, skinning a large hare. His lips tick up softly, an apology in his eyes. “That’s not me,” he says, pointing skyward. “It’s a natural storm.”
Right. We’re in Arbinj now. The land of thunderstorms.
The wind picks up, and something inside me buckles. I don’t want to ask. I don’t want him to know. But the crackling air clamps down on my lungs like a vise.
“Can you—can you make it stop?”
I hate the vulnerability in my voice.
His eyes soften, a look of regret crossing his face. “I wish I could. But I can only control storms that I summon myself.”
I nod too fast. I want to tell him it’s fine, and that I’m not a baby. But there’s another crash of thunder, and my hands jerk at my sides. The words die in my throat.
Zevayr pretends not to notice.
It starts raining while we eat—the rabbit tastes different tonight, more flavored—and Zevayr quickly strings up his cloak between two trees as a makeshift tarp, leather side up. We huddle beneath it, shoulder to shoulder. Since the weather has been warmer, we haven’t necessarilyneededto sleep so close together—but I haven’t said anything, and neither has he.
And now, with the storm overhead, lightning flashing in the distance, I’m glad I didn’t. Because the second the storm raged too hard, I’d have crawled back, desperate for comfort, for reassurance.
That I was safe.
A thunderclap rattles the sky, and the rain pelts down even harder, like the storm wantsme. I should have died that night with Mama, and now the thunder has come to collect its due.
A soft whimper slips out, and Zevayr draws me against his chest. His arms tighten around my shoulders, a ghost of a kiss brushed across my forehead, so faint I might have imagined it.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re safe.”
I am. IknowI am, and I hate it.
I shouldn’t feel safe with him. I shouldn’twantto be here, in his arms. I shouldn’t crave the press of his hands against my spine every time thunder shakes the sky. But I know without a shred of a doubt, Zevayr would go to any length to protect me. I’d bet my life on it.
But will that still be true once I marry his brother?
Lightning flashes, and my heartbeat races, faster than the rain bursting forth from the swollen sky.
Throughout it all, Zevayr doesn’t let me go, not even for a second.
The storm eventually recedes, but I remain wrapped in Zevayr’s strong arms. He doesn’t ask me outright, but the question flickers in his concerned gaze.
What happened to me?
“I was a little girl,” I whisper. “Six years old. Mama and I were somewhere new. A holiday, she called it. Just the two of us. I don’t remember where, only that there was no snow. She’d read stories to me every night and let me help her in the kitchen.”
“Was she a healer like you?”
I shake my head. “She was a nonwielder.” His brows shoot up, and a watery laugh escapes me. “I know. Father’s council was outraged, but he wouldn’t be swayed. He loved her. I wish I remembered more about her, but it’s all faded. Her name was Meerah. She—” My voice cracks, and I struggle to swallow my sob. Zevayr’s hand rubs gentle circles against my back, and it comforts me far more than it should.
“I don’t remember much of that night. But she told me to hide in the closet and not come out, no matter what. I listened. There was a horrible storm. Lightning and thunder and rain. It shook the bones of the house. I was terrified. And the smell—it still haunts my dreams. Burnt flesh with the tang of metal.” Zevayr stiffens. “Father said it was a stormwielder. Sent by Arbinj.” I swallow hard. “He never recovered from her death. A piece of him died that day, too.”
