“And here I thought I had a shred of dignity left. Silly me.” I laugh, cold and bitter.

He lifts a brow, utterly unbothered. “Happy to strip that from you too, if you like.”

My fingers curl tighter around the bundle in my arms. Heat prickles beneath my skin. My handprint on his face has faded, and I’m tempted to slap him again and again until it’s permanently tattooed onto his skin.

He’s smug. He’s so tidesdamned smug. Like every violation is just another thing I’m supposed to thank him for. I square my shoulders and glare at him, fire rising in my chest despite the cold.

“I’m not changing with you here,” I grit out. My voice is low, dangerous. I clutch my clean clothing to my chest like armor, daring him to challenge me.

I wait for a smart retort, a cruel smile, but instead he sighs and makes a big show of turning around and taking a few steps away, as if that’s supposed to give me comfort. With a muttered curse, I duck behind a tree and peel off my damp clothing. The cold air hits my bare skin like a slap, and I rush to put on the dry wool leggings and thick tunic. My boots are waterproof, so thankfully, my socks are still dry.

When I emerge, clothes dry and hackles raised, Zevayr’s back is still turned, but his arms are crossed, fingers drumming an impatient pattern on his bicep.

I hate him.

As if sensing my violent thoughts, he turns, raking his gaze over me. I do the same: his clothes appear dry—leather pants and a black long-sleeved shirt beneath a thick vest, brimming with weapons. I eye his cloak with envy—thick, soft fur on one side, supple leather on the other. He must be so warm.

“Are we going to be civil?” he asks, brow arched.

I nearly laugh. “Depends. Are you going to be an ass?” I hurl my wet bundled clothes at his feet. He rolls his eyes.

“What do we do now, oh great commander?” I snap.

He looks unimpressed. “All my men are dead. The rebels knew exactly where we were and how many soldiers I had.”

I narrow my eyes. “You don’t still think I had something to do with that, do you?”

A beat.

“No. I believe you.”

“Finally. Some progress.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “We’re not too far from the palace. We can make it back within a day, regroup, get supplies—”

“We’re not going back to the palace.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You expect me to walk into the Tundrayni capital with no soldiers? They’ll impale me with ice spears before I reach the gate.”

“You keep forgetting—there’s a ceasefire in place. That only—”

“—I have broken,” he interjects. A muscle feathers in his jaw. “So you’ve reminded me. Several times. The ceasefire is shaky enough as it is. The moment I show up alone, it’ll be forgotten.”

“Fine. Do what you want. I’ll go back myself.”

“And if the rebels catch you?”

“That’s not your problem.”

“You’re betrothed to my brother. You are my problem.”

“Oh, now you remember?” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “You seemed to forget that little fact when you tied me up and manhandled me.”

He flinches—just barely—but his gaze drops to my raw wrists.

“Look,” he says quietly. “It’s dangerous out there. I can’t let you go alone. Believe it or not, I don’t actually want you harmed.” I scoff. He presses on, “And if anything happens to you, your father could blame me and attack Arbinj.”

Ah, there it is. At least he’s honest about his real concern. Retaliation.

Frustration curls hot beneath my skin. “What do you propose, then? You won’t go with me. You won’t let me go alone. Should we just pitch a tent and freeze to death?”

“We travel to Arbinj together. Where you’ll marry my brother. As planned.”

I gape at him. He can’t be serious. “That’ll take weeks on foot! Over a month, even. We don’t have the supplies.” I can barely stand to be around him, and I’ve only known him for a few short hours—and I was unconscious through most of it.

“Definitely over a month,” he says. “You’ll slow us down.”

I want to argue with him. No, actually, I want to throttle him. Him and his stupid chiseled face.

“This is madness,” I grit out. “You’ll be safe in Tundrayn. You’re under my protection.”

The insufferable asshole smirks, as if it’s amusing that he’d ever need my protection. “I appreciate that, Mayah.” I flinch. “Truly. But the answer is no.”

By the Tides. When I awoke this morning for my betrothal ceremony, never in ten thousand years would I have guessed I’d be bickering with the infamous Dark Commander in the middle of the tidescursed forest.

I glance sideways at the dense, snow-covered trees.

“Don’t even think about it,” Zevayr rumbles. Two large strides erase the distance between us. “I’ll catch you in seconds and drag you back. We’ll have wasted even more precious time.”

Alarm bells gong violently in my mind at the thought of being alone with him for weeks in the wilderness.

But I don’t see what other choice I have.

“Fine,” I grit out. “What next?”

“We keep walking ‘til nightfall. Tomorrow, we’ll keep going. There’s an Arbinji base near the border.” He walks away, as if his word is law. “The rebels might still be close. Skies, you’ve been shouting enough to lead them straight to us.”

He doesn’t even look back, just expects me to follow.

I do. Begrudgingly.

“Maybe next time, don’t call down a storm just because you’re cranky,” I mutter. “Giant thunderclouds make it very obvious that there’s an insufferable stormwielder nearby.”

He doesn’t deign to respond.

I hate him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

TRUE TO HIS WORD, Zevayr doesn’t stop until it’s so dark, visibility becomes an issue. After I trip over a snaking root for the third time, he looses a deep sigh and starts preparing a makeshift camp.

From his satchel, he retrieves a thick blanket and lays it over the snow. The blanket has barely settled when I plop down, eager to rest my aching legs. He offers me dried meat and a small pouch of nuts, and I tear into the tough, salty strip before swallowing it down like it’s roasted seal meat.

“Do you think we were followed?” I ask between bites, eyeing him warily as he sits across from me to eat his own portion.

“Maybe.” We switched directions often, but footprints in the snow are difficult to conceal. “We’ll cover more ground tomorrow.”

I nod absently, huddling into myself. Now that my body is still, the cold permeates my idle bones. I rub my palms together, blowing hot air over my frigid fingertips.

Zevayr’s eyes snag on my wrists again. The bruises have darkened in the past few hours—angry, thick purple bracelets, stark against my pale skin. His lips press into a grim line.

“Can you heal those?” he asks quietly, nodding toward my wrists.

I’m tempted to lie. I rather like the flicker of guilt that crosses his face each time his gaze lands on the raw skin.

But they do sting. And I’ve never had much patience for pain. One of the perks of being a healer, I suppose. Even the tiniest of aches are healed away.

And now that there’s food in my belly, I’m strong enough to heal the abrasions without worrying about draining my reserves.

In a blink, my hands glow white, and I press my fingers first to one wrist, then the other. Heat hums beneath my skin, and the bruises vanish like smoke.

When I look up, Zevayr is watching me, wide-eyed. Or, at least, one eye is wide—the other’s still an angry, swollen mess.

I sigh. I know I’ll regret this.

“I’ll heal you.” Deep breath. “In exchange for a truce. As long as you promise not to break it within seconds.”

A muscle pulses in his jaw. He studies me like I might bite.