Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,12
herself but stayed close, her body almost touching his. She was suddenly acutely aware that any number of creatures were probably watching them from the darkness right now, assessing threat, waiting for opportunity.
The Czech’s words filtered back into her mind.
We’re put on this earth to eat or be eaten. To kill or be killed, except with us humans, it’s not always about food or water. Sometimes it’s just for fun, or revenge.
Like with Amal. Watching, waiting all these years. Dalilah rubbed her arms again, cold suddenly in spite of the heat.
“You ready to move again?” His voice was a little kinder, gentler. He’d been as affected by the animals as she had, Dalilah noted. He might be experienced, but not jaded, not when it came to something like this.
“Come, hop on.”
“I’m walking, Brandt.”
“You’ll hurt your feet, then we’re done for.”
“Forget it, you can’t carry me all the way. I th—” Abruptly he grasped her by the hips and swooped her round onto his back. As he did, his fingers caught on the thread of her G-string, and she felt him stall. It made her suddenly conscious of the intimacy of her position on his back, and it clearly hadn’t escaped his notice, either.
He started to move again, this time at a faster trot, his small flashlight bobbing in a little yellow circle on the ground immediately in front of them. Lightning forked again over the horizon. The terrain began to change, thorn trees getting taller. After several miles he was breathing hard, his body wet with exertion.
The smell of smoke grew stronger. He coughed.
“Brandt, put me down.”
He kept going.
“I’m going to hurt you if you don’t put me down—you can’t keep going like this.”
He gave a snort.
“I mean it.”
He trotted faster.
She gripped his hair, pulled. “Put me down!”
He dumped her to the ground, hard and sudden.
“Dammit, woman. I should leave you out here for the bloody jackals!”
“Give me that machete,” she demanded.
“What in hell for?”
She took off her shoe. “Please, just give me that blade,” she said, holding her hand out.
He met her gaze, the paleness of his eyes unnerving in this light. Caution snaked through Dalilah. She didn’t know how far she could push him. She knew nothing at all about him other than Omair trusted him. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Her brother knew some rough and dangerous people.
Slowly he unsheathed his blade, handed it to her by the hilt, and in the faint beam of his flashlight she caught what looked like a twist of amusement on his lips. Irritation spiked—he was humoring her, waiting to see what she was going to do. Well, she’d show him.
She crouched, and balancing her stiletto against a rock, Dalilah raised the blade into the air. As she brought it down, he caught her wrist midmotion.
“Don’t be a fool!” he growled. “You’re going to slice off your goddamn fingers like that!” He pushed her aside and lopped off the heel in a clean swipe.
“Other one,” he said, holding out his hand.
She gave him her other shoe. He matched what was left of that heel to the other with a neat slice of his blade.
Dalilah put the decapitated sandals back onto her feet. Gritting her jaw in determination, she stood. The shoes were uncomfortable, but the soles had enough give so that she could walk, and it was better than having lopsided stiletto heels pinning her into the ground with each step.
He resheathed the blade. “Fine. Walk then. But there are three rules. One—we walk single file. You stay right behind me. Two—I give an order, you jump. Three—you keep pace or you’re back on my shoulders. Got it?”
Before she could retort he strode off, his flashlight a tiny yellow beam on the ground. “And it’s a panga, not a machete,” he called over his shoulder.
She hobbled after him, immediately struggling to match his pace.
“You’re going faster to spite me, aren’t you?” she said after a few minutes, already breathless.
“Believe me, if I wanted to spite you I’d do a lot more than walk fast,” he grumbled.
“Look, I didn’t ask to be rescued,” she retorted. “Especially by some pigheaded brute with a massive chip on his shoulder.”
“I didn’t ask to rescue you, either, sweetheart.”
“What’s your problem under it all—you don’t like women? Where’d you earn that chip on your shoulder anyway?”
He didn’t bother to reply.
“What did Omair do for you that you owe him?”
He was quiet for a moment. “If it wasn’t for your brother I’d be dead.”