by Layla Harper
Shit. Gray.
The jolt of surprise has my heart scuttling up my trachea.
Rogar adjusts my tunic. His hands drop to my hips, his grip firm and unyielding. He looks past me, across the encampment.
I turn my head and follow his line of sight. Gauron is awake, holding an object in his hands, and fluttering its wings beside him is the biggest owl I have ever seen.
“What the hell?”
Rogar runs a hand over his face. “News from Silver Hill. It cannot be good.” Reluctantly, he releases me.
I scamper off his long legs and follow him to where Gauron grunts, easing himself into a sitting position, one arm cradling his midsection. With its large, hooked beak protruding out of its flat face, the creature looks more eagle than owl.
“Wait. How did that… bird find you? I thought no one knows where we are.”
“The uvberg are rare. They are trained to hunt from birth.” Rogar crouches beside his friend.
Gauron hands him the long silver tube. “I have had Drut since he tumbled out of his nest and landed headfirst on top of me during one of our first training missions.” A wide smile splits his face. “I can bury a hair in the blistering Sands of Dod and Drut would find it. Blindfolded.”
Wow.
Rogar curls his long fingers over the top and removes the cover from the cylinder. He reaches inside and extracts a letter. Or what I think is a letter.
The uvberg watches both orcs curiously. The creature is huge, maybe three or four feet tall, with orange eyes and feathery tufts.
Setting the tube down, Rogar unrolls the parchment and begins reading. His eyebrows bunch, the V between his eyes becoming more and more pronounced as his gaze descends, following the path of scrolling swirls and swoops marring the page. When he reaches the end, Rogar closes his eyes, then looks away with a shake of his head.
I hold my breath. Whatever was penned on that letter pains him.
He stands and throws the parchment into the fire, watching it burn for a few seconds before returning to where Gauron and I await him.
“Tyerim’s forces have marched from Forvarra. They are staged outside our borders. He demands an audience.”
Gauron looks at me. “Tyerim is king of the winter realm and our hostile ally.”
Oh.
Rogar’s face is a mask I can’t read. The hands that were fondling my breasts a minute ago are fisted on his hips. A muscle pops at his jaw.
“This is not Nagir,” Gauron says softly to his king.
“Is it not?” Rogar gestures to Gauron’s injuries and shakes his head more violently than before. “Do not talk.” His voice is gentle, which surprises me given the vehemence in his stance. “You must conserve your strength.”
Wincing, Gauron digs a fist into the ground and uses the leverage to shift his body into a more upright position. He jabs a finger below his collarbone. “I let my anger affect my fight with the Baobhan Sith, and for that, I’m sorry. Being herded beneath a tree?” He snickers. “Oldest trick in the lore.”
Rogar smirks. “The pretty ones do not always think with their heads.”
“Or maybe they think with the wrong one,” I add.
Gauron alternates between laughing and grunting with pain. His bandages darken with blood from the exertion.
Rogar’s expression sobers. “You should have returned to Drengskador as I ordered.”
“No.” Gauron runs a hand through his red hair. “Khao can rule in our absence. My place is by your side. My fealty will always be to you, my king, Above our people. Above Drengskador. I pledge my allegiance to you and you alone. And I will follow you into the bowels of the Otherworld if I have to.” He eases back onto the bedroll. “Nothing about this situation feels right. The sith attack is not about her.” He tips his head in my direction. “It is about you.”
“Perhaps. But this was a cowardly setup. My enemies are not cowards.”
“What are you going to do?” Gauron adjusts the rolled blanket beneath his head. “Tyerim threatens war. You have no choice but to return.”
The gravity of the situation hits me at once. “He doesn’t know what’s going on with me, does he? You can’t let this winter king force you into—”
Shit.
I close my mouth. I don’t need to have been friends with Rogar for years to know his whole life revolves around duty and his people. If the choice comes down to Drengskador or me, the choice is obvious. It’s a no-brainer.
I don’t know why it hurts, but it does. The plain slices through, hot and fierce, because if I were him, I’d do the same. I’d choose Drengskador, not some human orphan without roots.
Without family.
My eyes sting. “I’ll let you guys talk privately.” I honestly shouldn’t be as invested as I am in their matters of state anyway. It was nice to be included. To feel like I was part of the team. Part of something. If only for a brief time.
Rogar clasps my wrist. “We stay the course.”
My head snaps up. “But…” Holy shit. Did I hear him right? “Your kingdom…”
He leans in to me and kisses the top of my head. “Stay close. Gray is nearby, but we do not know the dangers that abound.”
He’s choosing… me?
A cold sweat breaks out across my body. He’s choosing me.
I nod, too shocked to say anything else.
Rogar releases my wrist and stoops to grab the cylinder from the ground. “I will instruct Khao to inform Tyerim of our mission and have our troops prepare for war.”
Gauron grunts. “You are taking a huge risk, my king. If Tyerim turns—”
“Then we will deal with the setback when it occurs. My decision is a show of faith. For too long our kingdoms have hidden behind old wounds and misconceptions. If he chooses to attack, then our alliance is not worth the paper it is written upon.”
“Worth even less,” Gauron agrees. “Zilch.”
“Zilch.” Despite the hard lines of Rogar’s jaw and the firm set of his eyes, I see the worry in their depths. He genuinely cares for his people.
Something inside me shifts; the protective walls I’ve surrounded myself in for as long as I can remember, crack.
Rogar pulls another parchment from within the tube, this one blank, and an inkless quill. He scribbles on the parchment, the words appearing on the page. Magic ink? When he finishes, he stuffs the response back into the cylinder, inserts the top, and then secures the tube into the leather collar affixed to the owl’s breast. Rogar whispers something I can’t make out to the animal.
The owl lifts off, its massive wingspan stretching out above our heads. Powerful beats lift dirt and leaves from the ground until the bird disappears into the tree canopy.
Feeling awkward in the silence that follows, I point to the blood seeping from Gauron’s bandages. “We better change those. Where’s Aelinor?” She’d set off to make more of the healing poultice but has yet to return.
Rogar’s intense red stare falls onto my face like a caress.
My skin pebbles.
He reaches for the cloak he’d cast aside near the other supplies stacked by Gauron. “You are cold.” He wraps the thick fur around my shoulders and gently clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Stay with Gauron. I will find Aelinor.”
“Okay,” I rasp, because I can’t think. I’m mush in his presence.
He stares at me for the longest time, then drops his hand and crosses into the woods without looking back, leaving me standing, panting, surrounded by his scent with my fragile heart hammering in my throat.
Chapter Nineteen
Rogar
“What more did your capable third-in-command report?” Gauron drags the sharp edge of his knife along the tip of the lys trae branch clasped in his hands, honing the wood into a flesh-piercing point.
I watch the curled shavings fall to the ground, joining the others by his thigh. “What makes you think I have not told you all?”
He laughs. “I’ve spent half my life watching yo
ur back. I can predict when you take your dumps. Do you think I wouldn’t know when you’re keeping something from me?” His amber gaze shoots across the encampment to where Kyra meticulously folds a bedroll. Behind her, Aelinor straps her leather travel bag to the saddle of one of the remaining horses. “Something in Khao’s missive riled you enough to have you acting out of character.”
Affection wrestles with the pang of guilt plaguing me. Gauron has earned my loyalty. My trust. Yet I have dishonored our friendship by hiding my mate’s identity.
I force out a breath. “Border patrol encountered a squad of drows at our eastern boundary.”
“You think this is the same crew you encountered?”
“It would make sense, no?” I rub the back of my neck. “Scouts reported they entered the Forest of Night shortly after.”
Gauron sets down the half-finished arrow. “When?”
“A day ago at most.”
“Then you have no time to be suffering a convalescent in your party. Go now while you can.”
“This is exactly why I did not tell you. I am not abandoning you to this blasted forest.”
“Think of the mission. Strong as you are, you can’t take on a crew of drows all by yourself.”
“We survived the Baobhan Sith, did we not?” I jerk my head to the dark expanse of the forest to my left. “Besides, the mist hovers nearby. If what Aelinor says is true, then it will not allow the drows to take my ma—” Jatta. “My human ward.”
I hold my breath.
Gauron furrows his brows. “You can’t believe she was involved in the attack.”
He does not catch my gaffe, or if he has, he is not calling attention to it. “I do not.”
“Good. Because if that female wanted you dead, there was not a damn thing I could’ve done to stop her. Instead, she bellowed out a warning while nocking the arrow that killed the vampire attacking you, my king. We both know danger brings out a being’s true nature. If she were part of this plot to kill you, that would’ve been the time. She had a clear shot and the skill to do so. But at that moment, Rogar, her priority was you. That wipes her clean of suspicion in my eyes.”
His endorsement flames my growing attachment to Kyra, but I have lived long enough to know things do not always seem as they appear.
“I want you to keep this development between us. It will only feed Aelinor’s rancor and frighten the female.”
“More reason to leave me behind. You can’t keep stopping to allow me time to rest. The three of you can outpace a crew of drows without an invalid slowing you down.”
My glower only escalates his determination.
Damn stubborn orc.
I rap his boot with mine. “Not another word about desertion or you will be polishing boots well into the next century.”
* * *
Darkness abounds, cloaking us in a nebula of cold, dense, stifling air matching the unease squeezing my chest. The farther east we trudge into the heart of the forest, the more relentless the assault. Even the silvery glow of the lys trae cannot penetrate this hell, and without the normal markers to distinguish night from day, I am numb to the passing of time.
In the two, perhaps three days since the Baobhan Sith’s attack, Gauron’s condition has worsened. His normally vibrant gray skin is sallow and bleached of color. Leaning over one of the two remaining horses, he holds his shoulders back defiantly and attempts to hide every wince and stab of pain.
I cannot fault him.
I would do the same.
Gray’s powerful muscles tense and flex beneath me, his massive claws kicking up dirt and debris with each leap. We keep vigil to Gauron’s left, manning the space between him and the unknown dangers in the woods. My mate sits quietly between my thighs, safe and secure in my arms. Exactly where she belongs.
But at what cost?
I have endangered my best friend, sacrificed my life’s purpose—my kingdom—for a female who may or may not be in collusion with my enemies. A female my people will never accept. A female who centers my soul and the innate longing that has cleaved my spirit for as long as I can remember.
Smothering the self-doubt twisting inside me, I tighten my grip around her waist. Kyra’s nearness soothes me, yet I fear what it means. Why now? Why, after centuries of forced dormancy, does a pair bond emerge between two unlikely species? Orc and human.
Foreboding gnaws at my chest.
I steel my eyes forward. I made Kyra a promise, one I have no intention of dishonoring, come what may. One way or another, I will have my mate, save my friend, and keep my kingdom.
“You’re quiet,” she says softly. “And tense. Worried about Gauron?”
I let out a breath. “Yes. And other things.” Namely you.
“We should stop. He’s probably bled through his bandages. I don’t know how he’s still conscious. I feel like my whole lower half is in a coma after riding this long.”
Gray huffs.
Kyra giggles. “Sorry, big guy, but it’s true. Your back was not made for human asses.”
By Ulda, what I would not give to have that lovely human ass seated over my hips and riding my cock.
Growing hard behind her, I shift my position and urge Gray forward until the warg is neck to neck with Gauron’s horse.
My friend glances in our direction, his face bathed in sweat.
Stubborn orc. “The animals need rest.”
His eyes flare with alarm. “We’re close. We should’ve reached it by now.” He shakes his head as if trying to joggle the fog circling us.
Kyra leans to the left and angles her chin over her shoulder. “Is he feverish?”
“I do not know.” He looks… anguished. “Gauron?”
“The swamp. It should be here.” He swings his head to the right and to the left. “Did we pass it? Where in Annen is it?”
Gray whines when I slow his pace. “Gauron, stop. We will refer to the map.”
“We cannot. Not yet. Not until we reach the swamp.”
He makes no mention of the drows. For that I am grateful.
“What’s he talking about?” Kyra asks.
“The Kolmarden Swamp is said to hide scent,” I tell her, “much like these woods block sound.” With the drow trackers in pursuit, we had planned to use the marsh as a means to hide our presence. It meant delving deeper into the forest, but since the swamp intersects the Forest of Night in a southerly direction, we had decided yesterday to follow its track to Lithyr instead of our original trajectory.
The plan seemed viable at the time.
Aelinor drops back to join us, but her eyes never meet mine. Posed atop the beast like a frigid princess, she adjusts a white-blond braid hanging over her shoulder and narrows her gaze on the path ahead. “It’s said that the forest’s magic shifts so the bog never reappears in the same place twice.”
“Jatta.” Gauron wipes sweat from his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” His voice rises, sounding panicked. “The map is useless, then. The swamp could be anywhere.” The reins slip from his hands. He stretches, fumbling for the strap. “Rogar, we must find another way.”
Frowning, Kyra looks back and forth between me and my second but does not ask the question so clearly telegraphed across her lovely features.
Good. Because I do not think I can continue to withhold the truth from my mate. “We will stop here and take a short break to reexamine our options and alter the route if needed.”
Gauron clenches his teeth. If we were alone, he would rebut my directive and call me a hard-headed, bull-nosed idiot for not leaving him behind. Instead, he pulls on the reins until the horse’s gait slows, then sags against the beast’s glistening neck.
Aelinor dismounts and reaches for him, lifting him off the horse and settling him gently on his feet. Supporting his weight on one shoulder, she reaches for the bedroll clamped onto the saddlebag.
“These bandages must be changed. Come now, orc. Let’s sit this frail body of yours on the ground so I can mend your wounds.�
�
Gauron growls. “Frail, my arse, elf.” However, he lets her guide him to a level area clear of tree roots and shrubbery.
I jump off Gray and seize the bedroll from Aelinor, fanning it out before she can refuse my help. Before I am done, I spot Kyra unlatching the bag with Aelinor’s healing supplies, nimbly plucking poultice jars and bandages from the pouch’s interior. She makes her way to Aelinor places the supplies neatly on top of the bedroll.
The look my cousin flings Kyra makes my claws contract, but her boorish behavior has no visible effect on my mate.
“Let me know if you need any help,” Kyra says, her tone light and upbeat.
Aelinor grunts a sound that is neither reply nor acknowledgment, and despite the worry weighing on my second, he manages a warm smile in return.
Moved by her compassion, I take Kyra’s small hand between mine and lead her away, past where the two horses sniff and taste the vegetation sprawling across the damp forest floor to a more private area where we can speak freely. Gray has disappeared into the darkness, but I sense him close by.
“So how long do you think she’ll give us the silent treatment?”
I laugh. “As children, she could hold a grudge for days. I think the longest was one moon cycle.”
“A month? Are you kidding?”
“No. We were juveniles, she and I.” I bend and hold my hand flat to my knee. “Both of us this tall, if my memory serves me correctly.” I straighten my back and point to a stone ridge jutting from the soil.
Kyra brushes the rock’s surface free of dirt and sits.
“A sukker tree grew in the palace’s courtyard. Now, the thing you must know about the sukker tree is that it bears the most amazing fruit. Sweet, succulent, and rare. The taste is said to be unimaginable. But”—I hold up a finger and lower myself beside her—“the tree yields one fruit per season, and it had been years since anyone in the palace had seen a ripe sukker.”
“Oh no. I can imagine where this story is going.”
I chuckle. “My aunt was a fierce governess, but she could not decide who was worthy of the sukker, her daughter or her bastard nephew, so she let fate choose in the form of a race across the palace grounds. Even then, little Aelinor was known to be one of the fastest runners in all the kingdom.”