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Then he rises and stalks over to me, prowling like a wolf through a forest.

My eyes fixate on the knife in his hand. If he chooses to slice my throat, there’s nothing I can do.

Instead, he sheathes the blade and reaches out, not for me, but for the leather bindings.

His fingers make quick work of the knot, which he then drops at my feet. “Get dressed.”

My arms fall into my lap, useless and tingling, circulation rushing back in painful pins and needles. Despite that, I hurriedly start pulling on my clothes, desperate to shield myself from his eyes.

Once I’ve yanked my pants on, he tosses me my shirt. I don’t yet have my arms through the sleeves when he throws a small bundle at me.

I fumble and almost drop it before securing my grip.

“Eat.”

Once I finish dressing, I unwrap the muslin package. Inside, I find a simple traveler’s meal of dried meat and fruits, cheese, and a loaf of hard bread.

“You can call me Agnar, by the way.” He lobs me a water skin.

Agnar. Figures he’d have an absurd name. He glares, and I realize I’ve curled my lip, my control slipping in the wake of my fear and hunger.

On the opposite side of the fire, he reclines on his chair, which converts into a bed underneath him with the barest flick of his hand. “Get some sleep.”

I blink at him. “You’re not⁠—”

Agnar waves me off. “It’s late. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

This is far from my first time sleeping on the ground without a blanket or a pillow. I’ve never camped with a man I don’t know before, though, especially one who constantly wavers between wanting to kiss me or kill me.

The heat of his attention crawls over my skin like a living thing.

I finish the food, then roll over on my side, putting my back to both the fire and him.

I hate how my body responds to his presence. Loathe how my mind won’t stop replaying every moment, every touch, every sensation from that alley. I especially detest how nice hearing him say “good girl” felt.

I close my eyes and will myself to sleep, only to be startled as the ground smooths, lifts, and molds itself to my body.

Agnar has crafted me a perfectly shaped bed.

I wonder if this was done as an act of kindness or as another way to demonstrate his strength.

Chapter Eight

Agnar

Sleep won’t come, leaving me staring into the night sky as a gentle, forest-scented breeze washes over me. Normally, I have no problem dozing wherever and whenever I need. Tonight, every time my eyes close, Esme’s embarrassed expression surfaces like a body in still water.

I picture that chin tilting up and how defiant she remained even when stripped down to almost nothing. Her voice echoes in the space behind my ribs. We can save the kingdom. Epidemics are terrible things. Not something I would wish on most countries. If it’s true…

Meridia is one of the kingdoms that wanted to wage war with Tirene because they blamed Lark for the loss of their meager magic. They not only refused to aid us, but their nobles sided with the Devoted, believing their lies all the way up until they sat down to witness Lark and Sterling fight to the death at Zeru’s command. If this only affected the nobles, I’d sit back and laugh as the whole country crumbled. So far, though, the Withering seems to be contained to the southern part of the kingdom, where most people sided with Tirene. Good people who don’t deserve this.

I’ve heard enough lies in my career to fill a warehouse. Esme wasn’t lying. That doesn’t mean I can trust her. Esme’s wrapped whatever tales she’s spinning around a truth she believes in down to the bone.

I shove the thought aside and roll away from the fire and the sight of her silhouette. The shift in perspective doesn’t help. My brain keeps reminding me of how she looked in her fine linen, her skin glowing in the fire’s flames, her tight ass strained against the fabric, those lithe legs on full display.

The epitome of sensual innocence.

The things I would do to those legs…wear them like a scarf.