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I continue lounging against a tree, as far from everyone as I can get without leaving camp. The kids not so subtly spy on me as they play, while the adults toss a soup together from the rations and season it with herbs picked along the way. They served up the food in the animal-shaped bowls Agnar created for the young ones on the spot.

I wanted to slap him for that extra bit of effort.

Agnar appears out of the darkness, carrying two bowls in one hand. From the other, he drops a pair of bedrolls on the ground, then kicks them close enough that there’s no space between them.

I scowl. “Really?”

“Leif had extra. No more sleeping on the cold dirt for us. It’s bad for healing wounds, anyway.” He spreads them out. “And of course, I can’t trust you to sleep alone.”

“I wasn’t going to run.” I accept the food, doubly annoyed because I can’t stash half away as leftovers once I leave everyone behind.

Or am I triply annoyed at this point? It’s difficult to keep track.

“Sure you weren’t.” Agnar settles onto his bedroll and pats the other. “Come on, princess. I’m attempting to be nice.”

I consider refusing, but I’m hungry, and my shoulder aches. The bedroll looks warm and soft and infinitely more comfortable than the tree. Being uncomfortable and hungry won’t help me escape, so I lower myself down with as much dignity as I can manage, folding my legs under me.

Agnar plops down beside me, invading my personal space.

In response, I drive my elbow into his ribs.

He grunts and shifts closer.

Does he have to be a contrarian about everything?

Only a sliver of space remains between us, so I’m hyperaware of his every motion.

This is an absolute nightmare.

Chapter Twelve

Agnar

Her body molds to mine, her soft curves fitting against me like we’re meant to lock together. My mouth trails down the column of her throat, tasting salt and a hint of sweetness underneath. I slide my hand over her ribs, counting each one like I’d count prayer beads, before lowering it to her hip, then⁠—

She shifts in her sleep.

The movement drags me closer to consciousness, but not close enough. Not nearly close enough.

She murmurs words I can’t decipher and scoots backward.

Her backside curves against me perfectly, and I’m achingly, painfully stiff. The kind of stiff where thinking is impossible and breathing difficult. Where everything else becomes irrelevant.

Wake up. Wake up, you idiot⁠—

My eyes snap open.

The dying fire throws shadows across the sleeping forms scattered around the camp. Everything seems normal except⁠—

She’s still here.

Esme curls against me, fitting into the shelter of my body like she belongs. My arm cradles her head, and my other hand rests on her hip.

Either I put it there in my sleep, or she burrowed under my arm herself. Either way, my palm curves around her hipbone, over fabric too thin to serve as any real kind of barrier. Her hair, which tickles my nose, smells of woodsmoke.

She mutters and nestles even closer.

I don’t stir.