Except he wasn’t laughing.
Taking back the cloth, she reached into the cold water and began to gently scrub away the dried blood, saying nothing as she dragged her fingernails under his to remove the crimson rings, though she wanted to ask whose blood it was. What had happened. Whether the individual was still alive.
Finishing, she rubbed the smear from his cheek and then rose, taking the soiled water outside to dump into the snow and mud. When she returned, he hadn’t moved, only sat staring at the flickering flame of the candle. Sitting in front of him, she locked her fingers with his, holding them over the brazier to warm. “The legions stopped the noise. It feels strange to be able to hear myself think.”
“Yes.”
She ran her tongue over her lips, knowing if there was any time to press, now was it. That if he knew something, he might let it slip. Except that the thought of taking advantage of him while he was like this made her feel sick. And as it was, she’d played her hand already. Whether Hydrilla stood strong or fell depended not on discovering pieces of a plan but on eliminating the boy behind it. “It’s the calm before the storm, isn’t it?”
His eyes focused on her face, and he said softly, “The storm is already here.”
The wind howled outside, lifting up the corners of the canvas and nearly extinguishing the candle. Silvara shivered, but she didn’t want to let go of his hands to pull her blanket around her shoulders. “Will you have to fight?”
“Yes.” He swallowed hard. “Maybe. It…it depends on where I’m needed.”
A tear trickled down her cheek, because it would be her people he fought if her plan didn’t work. Her family. But that didn’t make her any less afraid for him. And what a cruel twist of fate that if the battle came to pass, no matter who stood the victor, she’d feel on the losing side. “Don’t.”
His breath caught and he went very still. And before whatever madness had possessed her could vanish, she said, “You could leave tonight. I know how good you are—they’d never catch you.”
“You mean desert?” His voice was toneless and unreadable.
“You didn’t choose this life,” she said, pressing onward though part of her knew it would do as much good as spitting into the wind. “The Empire stole you from your mother. Forced you to turn your back on your family. Made you into a killer when you might have been something very different.”
She waited for the joke. For him to say something inane about what a tremendous cobbler he’d have made. But Agrippa only stared at her.
Desperation filling her, Silvara blurted out, “You are a slave to the Empire but that doesn’t mean you owe it your loyalty. And it certainly doesn’t mean you owe it your life.”
He jerked his hands from her grasp and climbed to his feet. “I should go. I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”
“No, you will not,” she snapped, angry tears running down her face. “Not until you explain to me why you’re willing to throw away your life for the Empire.”
“It has nothing to do with the Empire,” he shouted. “Fuck the Empire! It can burn for all I care.”
Both of them froze, silently breathing while they waited for the fallout of such a proclamation. Yet while dozens must have heard, the cold or ambivalence or, possibly, like-mindedness, kept anyone from stirring to investigate.
Speaking more quietly, Agrippa leveled a finger at her. “My loyalty isn’t to the Empire, Silvara. It’s to the Thirty-Seventh. To the brothers I have fought and bled next to since I was seven years old. They—not the family I was born to—are the ones I trust to guard my back. And I won’t abandon their backs. Not for anything. Or anyone. And I know you know that.”
The spirits save her, but she did know that. Knew that he’d lay down his life to spare one of his men, because it was who he was. But if her plan failed and he lifted arms against Hydrilla tomorrow, she could no longer deny that he was anything but her enemy. And she didn’t want that. Didn’t want to lose him that way—not when a choice on his part could spare her that fate.
Yet she could say none of this, so the words that slipped from her lips were, “I don’t want you to die.”
Agrippa’s expression softened and he knelt back down. “I don’t want to die, either. But I’d rather that than do something I can’t live with. So tomorrow, I’ll follow Marcus’s orders and be where I need to be. Be who the Thirty-Seventh needs me to be.”
What about who I need you to be?
As if hearing her thoughts, he reached to wipe a tear from her cheek. “You’ll know when it begins, because it’s going to be loud. Keep your head down and stay in your tent until long after it’s over, all right? If I can, I’ll come find you when it’s finished.”
It’s not going to happen. The battle won’t happen.
Agrippa curved his hand around her cheek, his palms rough with calluses. Then he kissed her. A sweet brush of the lips that broke her heart into a million pieces, because it promised her everything and nothing.
But she wanted the world.
He moved to pull back, but she wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging herself against him. Tangling her fingers through his hair and kissing him with a ferocity she’d hadn’t known herself capable of. Running her tongue over his and relishing his soft intake of his breath as she settled into his lap, his hands gripping her hips.
Then he turned his head. “Silvara, this isn’t why I came.”
She kissed his jaw, his throat, her teeth catching at the lobe of his ear. “Let it be why you stay.”
“No.” He lifted her off him as though she were as light as a feather, setting her at arm’s length. “I won’t let you give up so much for so little in return. You deserve better than this. Better than me.”
“I’ve never met anyone better than you!” The words tore from her lips. “Never met anyone like you.”
He looked away. “I’m just an Empire boy who knows nothing about anything other than fighting.”
“That’s the least of who you are.” She climbed back onto his lap, kissing him as she unfastened the buckles on his armor. “You are brave and loyal and kind and—” her breath caught on a sob “—and the Empire has taken enough from me. From you. I won’t let it steal this moment.”
“Silvara…” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You could never hurt me,” she whispered. “I trust you.”
He didn’t answer, the only sounds his ragged breath and the thundering beat of her pulse in her ears.
Then he kissed her.
Gone was the soft, sweet brush of the lips, and in its place was a hunger that made her breath catch. That made heat course through her veins, wild and unchecked. That made her want to throw caution to the flames for the sake of giving herself what she needed in this moment.
His tongue ran over hers as he bore her down against the blankets, breaking off the kiss only to pull off his armor and cast it aside, weapons quickly following suit with a metallic clank. She caught hold of the hems of his tunics and drew them up, drinking in the hard muscles of his chest even as she cursed the 37 tattooed black and stark on his chest. Then his mouth was back on hers, biting at her bottom lip before trailing lines of fire down her jaw, her throat, his breath burning against her skin.
Whimpering, she ran her hands over the sleek skin of his shoulders, then down his spine, feeling the rough lines where his lash marks were still healing, her heart catching because he’d earned them protecting her.
And while once that would have flared her temper, now she understood that strength didn’t always come from standing alone.
Agrippa sat upright, pulling her with him even as his mouth once again found hers. Her eyes closed, she let instinct take hold, her hips rocking against him as her fingers worked loose the buckles on one vambrace, then the other, freeing his forearms.
The wind chose that moment to attack the tent, sending the canvas rattling and making her jump, but Agrippa wrapped his arms around her. “Just the storm,”
he said softly. “You’re safe.”
They rested their foreheads together, breathing the same air, and then his hand slid up her side, fingers finding the buttons of her dress.
Her heart was a drum in her chest, nerves and desire sending quivers through her body. Because she’d never been with a boy. Didn’t know what to do or what to say beyond what she’d heard other girls talk about. And she was afraid of doing it wrong, of ruining the moment.
Then she felt him fumble the buttons, realized his hands were shaking. That, however improbable, Agrippa was as nervous as she was.
Reaching up, she caught hold of his hands as she met his gaze in the dying candlelight. Then she unfastened the buttons, one by one, and drew his hands down to grip the fabric of her skirts.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” he said softly. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I want this.” She tightened her grip on his hands. “I want you.”
He gave a slow nod, then drew the fabric of her dress and shift over her head, leaving her naked from the waist up. Cold air bit at her skin and Silvara shivered, painfully aware months of rations had left her little more than skin and bone, her breasts slight and stomach hollow.
But the reverence in his gaze as he leaned back, seeming to drink her in, chased away her trepidation.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his hand slipping up her side to curve beneath her breast. “More perfect than I dreamed.”
As was he, but she wondered if it was foolish to say it. To tell him how often she’d thought of touching the sleekness of his golden-brown skin, the hard muscles earned from a life of combat, the black tattoos inked on his flesh. How often she’d dreamt of what this would be like.
So instead she kissed him again and allowed the world to fall away. Allowed herself to drown in him as the rest of their garments were cast aside. His skin burning against hers, hands and lips and tongue making her feel things she’d never thought possible, his words making her brave enough to whisper her own. Making her feel wild and free and so very alive.
So when he rolled, settling her hips above his, a question in his gaze, Silvara knew exactly what she wanted.
And she took it.
The brief flash of pain as they came together faded as she kissed away his concern, moving until she heard his breath grow ragged, his heart a rapid thud thud against her palm even as his fingers touched her exactly as she wanted.
Fire burned through her body, building hotter and hotter until she scarcely felt the cold, and then she broke, taking him with her. Hearing her name on his lips even as she screamed his, not caring who heard. Not caring for anything more than this moment as she collapsed in his arms, curling into the warmth of his body as he pulled blankets and cloaks over them, both of them silently breathing until her tiny stub of a candle winked out.
28
Marcus
He woke to a cloud of pain, his body screaming, eyelashes sticking as he tried to blink, everything blurry. And he was so very, very cold.
“He’s awake.”
Felix’s voice. Except that shouldn’t be, because he’d given Agrippa and Amarin very specific orders. “You’re. Not. Supposed to. Be here.” It was hard to get the words out, his teeth chattering and each breath like being stabbed with a knife all over again.
“Yes, well, for once Agrippa’s irreverence worked in your favor.” Felix leaned over him, his friend’s face fading in and out of focus. “What were you rutting thinking, Marcus? You know what happens when Hostus gets you alone.”
For years he’d suffered Hostus. Of course he knew. “Was part. Of the. Plan.”
“It was a shitty plan. A stupid plan.”
He couldn’t feel his feet. His hands felt like ice. “My plans—” His chattering teeth caught his tongue “—are. Never shitty. Besides. It worked.”
“I fail to see how you being close to death is a success.”
“Minutia.” Because his survival was not necessary for the plan to succeed.
“Not to me.” Felix’s voice cracked, and Marcus fought to focus on his friend’s face as Felix said, “You always do this to me. Why do you always do this to me?”
“I’m fine.” The world faded to black, leaving only sound, and he heard Felix say, “Amarin, he’s freezing. We need more heat. More blankets.”
“The smoke will set off his attacks,” Amarin answered. “He won’t survive it.”
“He’s not going to survive freezing to death, either. I’m going to get—”
“No.” Marcus couldn’t remember why he was standing his ground on this. Only that it was important. “No one else.”
“Shit. Amarin, shit, I don’t know what to do.”
Marcus felt hot droplets splattering against his face. Would’ve wiped them away, but he couldn’t find the strength to move. “Take care of the Thirty-Seventh.”
“No.” Felix’s voice caught. “No, Marcus. That’s your job. Mine is to take care of you.”
He needed to stay awake. Needed to tell Felix things. To give orders.
But he couldn’t think.
Then he felt heat against his back, warm breath against his cheek. Felix’s voice in his ear. “You keep breathing, all right? You’ve survived worse, so you can survive this. Please survive this.”
And Marcus managed one thought. One sentence before the world went to black. “I haven’t done all the things I need to do yet.”
29
Agrippa
He left Silvara still sound asleep, curled up beneath her threadbare blankets and his fur-lined cloak. If he’d woken her, it would have required words, which was something he was feeling rather short on. If he survived the battle, he’d apologize. And if not, well…she could stand on his grave and berate him for his failings.
What would he do if he survived? The question had circled his thoughts through much of the night, allowing him little sleep despite his exhaustion. He didn’t want things to end with her. Didn’t want to give her up. And with her lying naked in his arms, it had been easy to come up with ideas for how they might continue. Easy to forget the consequences of doing so, because what did punishment mean in the face of being with the girl he was falling in love with?
She could follow the Thirty-Seventh. I could quit gambling and give her the money I earn. Others have done it before me and never been caught.
Except out in the cold air, surrounded by the stench and poverty and misery of followers’ camp, reality slapped him in the face. This would be her life if she followed the legion, and it wasn’t the life he wanted for her. She deserved happiness and safety and a man who would put her first. Who didn’t have to hide from the world how much he cared about her. She deserved a family, which was something he could never give her, because the Thirty-Seventh was his family and he could not have both.
You have to end it. His eyes burned with the truth of it, grief rising in his chest that the most perfect night of his life was one he’d now be forced to regret due to circumstance. Because by allowing it to happen, it had only made his leaving a thousand times worse.
Marcus was right.
The thought of the Thirty-Seventh’s legatus dragged his heart lower, because while being with Silvara had been an escape, he now had to face reality.
Shivering, he approached the walls of the camp, pausing a safe distance back so those on duty could get a good look at him, then moved to the base. Above, Uther leaned his elbows on a beam of wood. “What happened to ‘I’ll be back in an hour, Uther’?”
Agrippa shrugged. “You going to get me in or not?”
“You owe me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Uther’s calm should’ve eased the trepidation in his chest, especially given no one had hunted him down in the middle of the night, but part of him was still terrified that Marcus was a frozen corpse in his tent. And that he’d have to not just take up the reins of the battle to come, but dive into the politics and machinations of command that he’d kept clear of for so long. That h
e’d be responsible for seeing the Thirty-Seventh not just to the other side of this, but through all that was to come.
“You better not be dead, Marcus,” he muttered under his breath as Uther tossed down a rope, well aware that there’d been a time, long ago when they’d been rivals, that he’d wished for exactly that. “I will piss on your grave if you’re dead.”
Bracing his feet against the wall, he hauled himself upward and over, giving Uther and the others a muttered “Thanks” before descending into camp. It was beginning to stir with the glow of dawn, a few men walking to the latrines, breath steaming, and others yawning as they strapped on gear while they ate, preparing to take shifts on guard duty or patrol. Even on the day of a battle, a legion camp functioned as a finely oiled machine.
Shift had changed, the guards around Marcus’s tent different than those when he’d left, and forcing himself to yawn, he said, “Top dog awake yet?”
“There you are.” Amarin stepped outside. “You were supposed to be here at dawn.”
Looking over his shoulder at the glow, Agrippa said, “I think we need a more specific definition of what dawn means, because I’m tired of being accused of tardiness.”
The guards smirked, and he gave one a friendly elbow before walking to the tent’s entrance. Please be alive.
Warmth struck him as he entered, though he barely felt it, his eyes skipping past Felix to Marcus, who sat stiffly on a stool. He was ghastly pale, the shadows beneath his eyes looking like bruises, but he was very much alive.
“I must say, I’m impressed at your resilience, sir,” he said. “All those who claim you’re just a pretty face should really eat crow.”
“I’m alive because of you,” Marcus answered. “Thank you.”
Agrippa clenched his teeth, sucking in a breath through them. “Obviously I’ve been overly optimistic. You wouldn’t be so sentimental if you weren’t on death’s door. The next thing I know, it will be embraces and tearful goodbyes.”
Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores) Page 18
