When my coughs finally fade, I meet her gaze.
Her hands have fallen to her sides, and there’s fuckingregretin her eyes. Remorse and despair and fear.
The sight fills me with rage.
It’s too late for regret. It’s too late for anything.
She couldn’t even grant me the mercy of death at her hands.
“Run, Mayah,” I snarl. “Run.”
She turns and bolts into the woods.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Mypowerseepsbackinto me like a storm building, breath by breath. It starts as a tingling in my fingers, each pulse sending an ache through my ribs, as though my power is angry with me for being so careless with it.
I won’t make that mistake again.
With enough of my strength returned, I easily break through the ice encasing my legs—it wasn’t as thick as I’d expected. Rage rumbles through me, and my power matches it. The sky darkens, and a storm worthy of the Dark Commander gathers overhead.
The thunder booms my promise.
I take off into the woods after the waterwielder. It’s only a matter of time now before she succumbs to the aphrodisiac. She’ll crawl back willingly to me. And then I’ll—
And then I’ll what? I already know I won’t kill her.
I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see.
Her footprints are easy enough to track through the woods. She’s woefully untrained. Her father—or her captain—didn’t do her any favors.
I come to a sudden stop.
Her footprints veer right.
She’s heading straight for the Tundrayni camp.
I could stop now. Ishouldstop now. Let her barrel right into their camp. I’d planned to deliver her there tomorrow anyway.
But she’s high on my power.
By the time she arrives at that camp, she’ll be aching foranyone.
Everyone.
What if the warriors who find her aren’t good men? What if they don’t resist her advances and get her to safety?
What if they—
The thought of anyone else’s hands on her skin, willing or not, sends a fresh wave of rage crashing through me.
I run as fast as I can.
It takes only minutes of running at full speed before I sense her energy signature. Skies, she’svibratingwith need. At various distances around her, there are more signatures than I care to parse. Some up in trees, others crouched behind bushes.
They’re using her as bait. Stoat maneuver, I believe they call it.
Slowing to a lazy walk, I stride through the trees. Her eyes widen as she drinks me in, her electric currents pulsing faster. A deep flush paints her cheeks and neck. Her lips part, tongue wetting her lips.
