Kai’s POV
The first grey light of dawn felt like an accusation.
Kai had not slept. He’d spent the night propped against the door, watching the silent girl on the cot. Every quiet, hitching breath she’d taken had been a nail in the coffin of his professional detachment. The image of her scarred skin, revealed in the firelight, was burned onto the back of his eyelids. That wasn’t the mark of a dangerous weapon. It was the mark of prolonged, brutal torture.
He moved with the sun, his body aching from the fight and the sleepless night. His routine was a comfort. Pack the supplies. Check his gear. Ignore the leaden feeling in his gut that had nothing to do with the purse of the king’s gold tucked in his coat.
He glanced at Zara. She was watching him, her stormy eyes wide and wary. She looked like a rabbit frozen before a snake. The comparison sat poorly with him.
“We’re moving,” he announced, his voice rougher than he intended. He needed to get back on the road. Back to the mission. Distance would scrub this… this feeling away.
He didn’t trust her to walk, not yet. His nose still throbbed from the impact of her skull, a stark reminder of the fight still in her. He bound her wrists again, his fingers deft and impersonal. The leather was a necessity, a boundary. He led her outside to his horse, a solid, dependable creature named Bastion that felt more like a partner than any he'd had before.
Without giving Zara a moment to hesitate or resist, he hauled her up before mounting behind her in a fluid motion. She went rigid the moment she made contact with his chest, holding herself so stiffly he half-expected her to shatter. She would learn soon enough to relax in the saddle. For now, she’d rather risk falling than lean into him. He understood the sentiment. He’d rather be tracking a mark through a blizzard than playing nursemaid to a traumatized girl.
As Bastion started down the path, leaving the suffocating silence of Oakhaven behind, a change occurred. It was subtle, but to a man who lived by noticing details, it was profound.
The world got loud.
The clip-clop of hooves on hard earth. The rustle of wind through pine needles. A distant jay screaming its head off. It was all just… noise. Annoying, ordinary noise. And it grounded him in a way he hadn't realized he'd missed.
But the girl in front of him… she flinched at every sound. A birdcall made her jump. The wind made her shoulders hike toward her ears. She wasn’t just listening; she was being assaulted. After a lifetime in that cursed silence, the natural world was a terrifying cacophony.
He found himself slowing his pace, not for the horse, but for her. To give her time to adjust. The thought irritated him. She’s cargo, Talon. Valuable, fragile cargo. That’s all. Protecting the asset was just good business.
Hours later, the terrain turned steep and rocky. He dismounted, his boots crunching on shale. “We walk.”
He lifted her down, his hands spanning her waist. She was as light as a wisp of hay. He set her on her feet and immediately let go, turning his attention to Bastion’s reins. He didn’t look back at her. He didn’t need to. He could hear her struggle. The scuff of her inadequate shoes on the loose rock, the small, soundless gasps every time she slipped.
He kept his pace steady, leading Bastion upward. He stopped twice under the pretense of letting the horse drink, each time precisely when the ragged sound of her breathing behind him became too pronounced to ignore. It was a tactical decision, he told himself. A fainting asset would only slow him down more.
The sun beat down. The silence between them was a physical weight. His mind, usually so focused on threats and routes, kept circling back to the King’s fear. What could this fragile creature have possibly done to warrant this? What was the “deterrent” she was meant to be?
He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the sound—a skitter of loose stone, a sharp intake of breath that wasn’t his own.
He turned just in time to see her foot slide out from under her. She pitched forward, arms flailing, her face a mask of silent terror. There was no time to think.
His body moved on instinct forged in a hundred battles. His hand shot out, snagging the fabric of her cloak, and he yanked her backward. She stumbled into him, her back colliding with his chest. His arm wrapped around her waist, locking her against him until her feet found solid ground.
For a single, jarring second, he held her. He felt the frantic hammer of her heart against his arm, the delicate structure of her ribs. She felt terrifyingly breakable. The scent of her hair—honeysuckle and cold air—cut through the smell of horse and leather.
He released her as if she’d burned him, stepping back quickly. “Watch your step,” he grunted, the words coming out far more harshly than he’d intended.
As he turned away, her body seemed to crumble in on itself, her face blanketed in a sharp, silent pain. He spun, going on full alert, hand on his knife, scanning the trees for whatever threat was coming.
There was none. No strange sounds tickled his ears. Bastion was calmly eating grass, completely at ease. Zara’s face shifted to relief before she simply sat on the ground, spent. What the hell was that? Had the near-fall triggered the collar's punishment? Or was she just that horrified to be touched by her captor?
He turned away, grabbing Bastion’s reins with unnecessary force. “Get up.” The command was soft, lacking its usual hardened steel. It made him cringe.
Anger simmered in his veins—not at her, but at himself. For catching her. For the unwelcome jolt of protectiveness. For the way his professional resolve was crumbling like rotten wood.
The King’s coin felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. It was the heaviest weight he’d ever carried. He was a mercenary. He dealt in simple equations: a job for coin, a threat for a blade.
Zara Lyane was complicating his math.
ns216.73.216.86da2
and then Add to home screen.