War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,47
eyes, my torso feels like one throbbing ache, and my throat is raw—though that last one was probably from being throttled by a zombie, not my would-be rapists.
This bitch just can’t catch a break.
War’s hand flexes against my skin, but he doesn’t move it away from where it rests against my forehead.
“How long have I been out?” I ask.
“Just for the evening.” Slowly, he begins to brush my hair back again with his fingers, watching me like he’s sure I’m going to push his hand away the moment I get the chance.
I think I was doing that a lot last night.
Now for the harder questions. “My injuries—how bad are they?” Damn, but it hurts to speak. My teeth feel loose and my jaw aches.
The horseman gets a dark look on his face. “They were … significant.”
Were?
“Can you tell me more than that?” I ask him softly. I’m scared to move and feel the pain ripple down my body.
A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Wife, I am used to breaking things, not repairing them. I cannot tell you precisely what injuries you sustained, only that there were many of them. Your body was swollen and bruised and broken when I took you from your tent.”
I shiver at the reminder.
Now the hardest question of all. “My attackers …” I’m supposed to say more—there’s a question I need to get out, but I can’t seem to voice it.
A look comes over War’s face, like he’s some wrathful god of old. “Captured, tortured, and left to suffer until their time of judgment.” His voice reverberates, the sound of it causing my flesh to chill.
If I took this situation any less personally, I’d almost feel bad for those men. But, I don’t, so let them fucking burn.
I push myself up then, groaning as I do so. Everything—and I mean ev-ery-thing—hurts like a bitch.
And it’s only once the sheets slip off my torso that I realize I’m still wearing my shirt from last night—my ruined shirt. It gapes open and nothing but the grace of God prevents my nipples from popping out to say hello.
War and I are now sitting side-by-side, me on a cushioned pallet, him on the ground next to it, and our shoulders and legs touch. I must be doing better than I was last night because even though I’m hurting, I’m still aware of every point of contact between us.
I force myself to note my surroundings.
Today, I’m back in War’s tent. He must have carried me here last night, after he rescued me.
Which means the pallet I’m sitting on … is War’s. My stomach drops. I was trying to avoid ending up in this very place.
I try to focus on that, to hold onto the overwhelmingly bad situation I’ve found myself in with the horseman, but all I can think about was that he stopped those men and spent the night tending to me, and I’m fucking grateful to him.
So fucking grateful.
I wasn’t when he spared my life in Jerusalem, nor was I very grateful when he stopped the zombie attacking me, but I now am.
Just then a soldier calls from outside the tent, “My Lord, there’s a matter with a new rider that needs—”
“It can wait,” War says.
My gaze flicks over him, lingering on the sensual curve of his mouth.
Why am I thinking about his mouth?
“You can go,” I say to him. “I’ll be fine.”
War glances at me, and I see his hesitation.
“Seriously. I’m not going to die—thanks to you,” I tack on.
The horseman’s eyes deepen at that. His lips part, and I think he might respond, but instead, his gaze moves over my face, pausing here and there, his eyes getting more and more violent.
I must look like royal shit for his mood to darken at the sight of me.
“They will be fine without me,” he states.
“I’ve lived on my own for seven years,” I insist, pulling the fabric of my shirt tight over my chest. “I’ll be fine while you’re gone.” I could use a little privacy.
He stares at me for several long seconds. Then reluctantly, he stands, striding over to a chest where a holstered dagger rests. My eyes watch the way his massive body swaggers with each step of his.
Stop it, Miriam.
War picks up the dagger and comes back to me. Kneeling down, he places the weapon on my lap. “Anyone but me enters this tent,” he says, nodding to the tent flaps, “you gut them.”
Said like a man who knows his way around a good murder.