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As it happened, he was remarkably adept at kindling a fire, even from the wettest wood.
Utterly unbothered by anything. Impenetrable to human emotion. Brutally handsome.
“Forget for a moment,” said Rey wearily. “I’ll be here.”
Gaze falling on Silla’s messy curls, Rey battled the urge to twist a tendril around his finger and pull it taut.
He’d never admit it aloud, but he’d grown to like the sound of her chatter. It uplifted him.
“I know who you are,” he heard himself say. She went stone still. “I know why the queen is hunting you.” She tensed, as though bracing for the words to come. “Your scar. I was with you when you got it, Eisa.”
SCREAMINGGG
He could only stare at the birchbark etching and wonder how this troublesome woman could have climbed into his wagon and ruined his life so thoroughly.
“Very well. Tell to me, Just Saga.” Gods, but she hated how much she enjoyed the man’s accent. She wanted to ask him to say bog-blossom or flying fairy caps and close her eyes to let the sound roll over her skin.
He’d thought her one of the last good things in this cursed kingdom.
“I like chickens,” Silla offered, fatigue setting in once more. “Very well,” said Vig jovially. “We have those in Kalasgarde.” “Excellent,” she said.
A curtain separated a sleeping space at the back of the room from the rest, and that was the entirety of the home. “We, erm, were not expecting two of you,” said Vig.
His gaze was flat. “The bed is yours. I’ll sleep on a bench.”
Home? The shield-home was no home. It was as good as a cell. And so, he returned to his prison.
He shouldn’t have left her here, all alone in this new place. Do better, he thought, tripping through the doorway into darkness.
“Silla the Stone Whisperer,” muttered Rey.
For the briefest of moments, Rey’s mask slipped away, and he looked despondent…a little lost. Something inside Silla woke up and growled—she despised this look; she wanted to batter it away and bring back the surly man she knew.
“I will do it,” said Harpa, “for Kjartan and Svalla. For Íseldur.”
“And I will do it for you, Reynir.”
“Suppose there is only one bed in this place.
“And you?” she asked. “Who will watch over you, Rey? Who will keep you safe?”
Slowly, he led her through the dark cabin, settling her onto the bench.
As she sobbed against him, her fingertips stroked along that patch of spiky hair, and he began to understand. Kopa had left bruises on Silla’s skin and unseen scars on her soul. Jonas. The Klaernar. Each warrior the queen had sent after her.
His heart thrummed at her nearness, the walls around it crumbling to ash.
She lowered her head to his chest in a move of such familiarity, Rey thought his heart might break free from his ribs. The sapling of trust was growing once more, and this time, he would not trample it. He would nurture this precious thing until it grew strong. Arm sliding down her spine, he hauled her closer.
Exhaling, he stroked the curls that had taunted him for so long.
A flush crossed her cheeks, as though she was suddenly aware of how near they’d grown. She scooted a few inches away, and while Rey
knew he should feel relief, he felt the loss of her touch like an ache.
They stared at one another, a new uncertainty hanging in the air. Rey didn’t like it one bit. He wanted to gather her back to him. To hold her until all her fears melted away.
Lone wolf he might be, but now, Silla needed a pack.
Perhaps she’d been delirious with fatigue, but she’d decided she rather adored that stern, sharp voice of his.
It was a little Silla-sized pocket—one she now knew she fit rather well.
“You’re like my own personal hearthfire,” she murmured, curling against him and trying to ignore the expanse of firm muscle. Warmth. She was merely seeking warmth.
She made to push away from him, but Rey’s arm slid off the back of the bench, scooping her even closer.
“I won’t tell a soul that the fearsome Axe Eyes has a soft side.” And as blackness had pulled her into sleep, she could have sworn she’d heard him say, “only for you, Sunshine.”
But all she could think of was the feel of him at her back and the fact that she’d fallen asleep against him last night. That she’d awoken in her bed with the furs tucked neatly around her.
Their eyes met as she stomped the snow from her boots, and Rey couldn’t help but recall their sparring session this morning. His skin had heated with each small touch, his heart thundering as her back had brushed against his chest. By the end of their session, he’d been so worked up, he’d needed to douse himself in the stream’s frigid waters.
“And last days when I was gone”—the man’s voice had taken on a teasing and far too familiar tone—“were you missing my…show in sparring grounds?”
“You liked what you saw, yes?”
He chuckled softly, stepping closer. “I admit, I enjoy making you squirm.”
He cradled her as though she was something precious—something cherished. “Krasavitsa1,” he said, tilting her jaw up with gentle pressure. “Dolgo ya zhdal2.”
Saga had somehow been reduced to a creature of need. Grabbing him by his jacket, she yanked him back to her, pushing onto the tips of her toes to slide her lips against his.
“Your fire,” he breathed, as their lips broke apart and came back together. “It drives me mad.”
This was easy. He was easy.
“You like it when I tell you what to do, Sunshine?” His voice rumbled through her, and she felt it in all the places they touched. “Well guess what?” With a ruthless burst of speed, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her to the ground with his hips. “I like telling you what to do.”
“You are uncommon. No, is wrong word. You are rare. Not what I expected.”
“Khotel by ya posmotret’, kak ty letish’ svobodno
During the day, she caught herself watching Rey as he went about the mundane.
Him, she thought. He’s my hearthfire thought. Silla gave her head a shake.
A flurry of soft peeps met Rey’s ears from the crate he balanced on the front of the saddle.
During a last patrol of Vig’s farmstead, Vig had mentioned a new hatching of chicks, and the idea had struck Rey. For days he’d racked his mind for a way to put a smile on Silla’s face.
