I must have taken too long to answer, because he growls, “I lost every single man in my command today. And once the attackers realized you were the princess, they protected you. I’m not feeling very charitable. Do not test me.”
“Fine,” I bite out. “I’ll answer your questions.”
“Did you know about the attack?”
“No.”
“Who attacked us?”
“I don’t know. I think it was the Rebellion.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Probably because they’re actively engaged in a war against both our kingdoms?”
Daft idiot.
He searches my face intently but still seems unsatisfied.
“Why didn’t the rebels harm you?”
“I imagine they were preoccupied with your thunder tantrum.”
He growls. His fingers dig into my wrists, the rough rope burning my already chafed skin. The sky darkens, storm clouds gathering overhead.
“When you fainted, they shielded you. Why?”
Thunder rumbles, low and threatening.
“I—I don’t know!” I stammer, eyes glued to the ominous clouds. My heart pounds a frantic staccato against my ribcage, and I wonder if he feels it thrumming against his chest. “Maybe they wanted to ransom me.”
My breath cleaves through me like a blade. With his heavy weight pinning me down, I can barely suck in a lungful of air. A flash of lightning briefly illuminates one of the dark clouds. My pulse thunders in my ears.
“Why did you faint?” he asks. My eyes snap to his—he looks less angry but makes no move to climb off me.
I tear my gaze away. I can’t tell a tidesdamned stormwielder that I’m terrified of storms. Especially not one convinced I was somehow involved in the attack.
“What princess wouldn’t faint in the midst of battle? They had tidesdamned bombs!”
“That’s not what I asked. Why did you faint?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
Another rumble of thunder, and a pathetic whimper escapes me.
I hate this. I hate him.
I cut my eyes away, cheeks flaming. He’s not going to let this go.
“I’m afraid of thunderstorms.” The words are quiet, whispered.
Damning.
“Why?” His brows are furrowed, his firm grip loosening marginally on my aching wrists.
“It’s none of your business!” I snap, embarrassment and anger and sheer exhaustion warring in my chest. “I’m not answering any more questions. Kill me if you must.”
His grip loosens further, and I wince as circulation returns to my tingling fingers. He tracks the motion and jerks his hands away as if the rope burned him.
When he finally climbs off me, I take a full, deep breath of cold air. He helps me sit, hands jarringly gentle, and I twist out of his grasp as soon as I’m upright.
Zevayr unsheathes a dagger from his belt, the sharp blade glinting in the waning light like a warning. Tides, I didn’t convince him.
He’s going to kill me.
I try to scoot away, but he grabs my arms with a grunt. The blade is cold, but it glides smoothly between my wrists as he slices through the rope. A soft gasp slips out as blood rushes through my pinched skin, sensation flowing back in a painful rush. My wrists are raw and chafed and bloody—admittedly because I struggled so much, not because he tied them too tightly.
My fingers fly to my neck, and relief swells within me when the sharp tip of the teardrop pendant presses into my skin. I flex my hand, and the large betrothal ring scrapes against my fingers. I didn’t lose that either, though its presence brings me no comfort.
Zevayr’s eyes are rooted to the reddened skin of my wrists. He parts his lips, but then his mouth snaps shut. Instead, he rises and offers a hand. I ignore it and stand on unsteady legs.
“We need to decide what to do next,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t tied me up and forcibly pinned me to the ground mere minutes ago.
My answer is a glare. He opens his mouth—
A loud crack echoes in the silent forest behind him, sharp and sudden. He pivots on his heel, sword already halfway unsheathed, knees bent.
A minute passes, then another.
When nothing happens, he sheathes his sword and turns around.
Just in time for my hand to connect soundly with his cheek.
His head swings sideways, and a resounding, satisfying, crack resonates through the frigid air. My palm stings, but the shock in his eyes sends a warm rush of gratification through me.
I jab a finger into his chest.
“You will not touch me again,” I hiss.
For a moment, he’s frozen, wide gray eyes scanning my face, flickering with a searing emotion I can’t name. His gaze drops to the finger pressed against his chest. His eyes darken.
He dips his chin in the barest of nods and takes a half step back.
“After you,” he rumbles, gesturing to the snowcapped trees behind him.
“Where?”
“To investigate that sound.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SOFT CRUNCH OF snow beneath boots is the only sound disturbing the silence of the forest. Arms folded tightly against the cold, I glance back again at the brooding stormcloud walking behind me.
“Are you normally this chivalrous?” I bite out through chattering teeth, stepping over a fallen branch. My soaked clothing clings to my body in an icy skintight layer. “Making me walk in front.”
“I won’t let the rebels hurt you.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about. I don’t like you behind me.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then—“I don’t need the element of surprise to overpower you. It would make no difference if I walked ahead.”
Arrogant ass.
I walk faster. Not that it matters. His long strides eat up my own.
“Wait,” he says. When I turn, he’s examining a small tree.
Or rather, what’s left of it.
A jagged break splits the trunk in half, its needled branches drooping on either side.
Zevayr levels an accusing glare at me.
“What?” Shivering, I cross my arms tighter, chin tilted up.
“Look.” He points to the center of the tree—where the bark splits, there’s a thick, twisted column of ice, as if water had shot up through the trunk and then frozen until it cracked in half.
Reluctantly, I meet his flinty eyes.
“A waterwielder did this,” he says casually.
I don’t respond.
“You don’t know of any waterwielders that might have followed us, do you? The captain of the Tundrayni royal guard, perhaps?” His smile is cruel and sharp and colder than the snow around us.
No. Daak wouldn’t have been so reckless.
“Not that I know of.”
He stares at me for several heartbeats, his expression unreadable. I try not to fidget beneath his stare, but Tides, it’s unnerving.
“Seriously?” I snap, arms crossed. “You think I sent Daak after you? Maybe I should’ve.”
He barely grunts in response, before striding away so fast I’m forced to jog to catch up.
Back at the clearing where the hulking brute pinned me to the ground, there are two satchels tucked against a tree. I didn’t notice them before—probably because I was preoccupied with escaping him. He plucks one off the ground and hands it to me.
It’s one of my bags. He must’ve retrieved it from the battle site before tying me up and lugging me through the forest. How considerate.
“Change out of your wet clothes before you freeze to death.”
The command in his tone grates at me, and I’m tempted to refuse out of sheer spite. But I’ve already been shivering for far too long as it is, and I don’t want to die out here.
With shaking fingers, I open the satchel—all my belongings are jumbled. Of course, the asshole rifled through them. A wave of fresh irritation wells inside me.
“You went through my things.”
Zevayr doesn’t flinch. “I had to.”
