And that skin! It’s just as anomalous as his armor. I’ve seen bullets enter his flesh and swords slice it, yet his flesh carries no traces of those wounds. He told me he could heal himself, but only now am I seeing actual evidence of that.
War sits down heavily in one of his seats, the wood creaking at his weight. Leaning back, he folds his arms over his massive chest.
“Has anyone bothered you since I’ve been gone?” he asks.
When I meet his eyes, there’s still heat in them.
“No.”
To be honest, I’m pretty sure War stationed several of his men around the tent. There were way too many close footfalls for me to believe otherwise. And if there’s one thing this guy is good at, it’s overkill.
“And how are you feeling?”
Exposed. Vulnerable. Like my tits are on display. “Better.”
War unlaces his greaves and nods. “Good.” His eyes study my skin, and I know he’s checking to see how my injuries are healing, but all I can think is that he’s getting an eyeful of boob. And now it’s become too much of a thing in my mind to actually cover myself like a sane person.
“Close your eyes,” I say abruptly.
“Why?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s still unlacing his shin guards.
“Because I’m naked and I want to get out and I don’t want you to keep looking at me.”
The heat in those eyes seems to deepen. “I will see that pretty flesh eventually, wife.”
Again my core clenches at his voice.
I’m about to protest when his eyes do close. Letting out a breath, I slip out of the bath and wrap a nearby towel around myself. As quickly as I can, I shove on the new clothes War left for me, surprised that they actually fit mildly well. To be fair, a T-shirt and standard issue cargo pants are hard to mess up.
Still.
“Thank you for the clothes,” I say. Because civilization might be dead but manners aren’t.
“Can I open my eyes?” he says in response.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, tugging my shirt to keep it from sticking to my still damp flesh.
War finishes removing his armor, then stands. I don’t know what I’m expecting him to do next, but I am definitely not expecting him to drop his pants.
Which is precisely what he does.
“Holy crap!” I shield my eyes. At least, I shield them a little—I mean, be brave is my mantra …
Technically, I should’ve seen this coming. He was undressing after all. I just expected him to wait until I wasn’t looking to change.
Also, two words: no underwear. And now I know for sure that if War ever wanted sex, he’d break me.
Holy balls—or maybe holy dick is more appropriate.
Clearly the nudity is a me thing, because War seems unfazed by it. He’s not even looking at me as he walks across the room, towards the basin. There’s just zero awareness that’s he’s naked and I am perversely intrigued massively uncomfortable.
My eyes slide back to the tub of water I was just in. The one he’s now stepping into. There’s something literally and figuratively dirty as fuck about the fact that he’s reusing my water. And it’s making me feel strange and self-aware.
“Do you want me to leave?” I say. I don’t even know why I ask it. I should just leave. Even though my knees are shaking with fatigue, I should.
War’s kohl-lined eyes find mine as he steps in the basin. “And miss your reaction, wife? Never.”
“So you do know it’s inappropriate to flash people?” I say, mustering up some righteous indignation.
The horseman lounges back in the basin. “It’s just nudity. It’s not supposed to be offensive.”
Somehow War, the asshole that’s killing everyone off, just managed to sound like the innocent one.
“It’s not offensive,” I say. “It’s just … not done.”
“Is it now?” he says. “So husbands don’t see their wives naked and wives don’t see their husbands naked? They somehow just enjoy each other fully clothed?”
I want to rake my hands through my hair. “We are not married.”
War gives me a look that states plainly, we are.
“I shouldn’t be staying in your tent anymore,” I say, backing up. I clearly hadn’t thought through the logistics of sleeping here, where War lives and bathes and sleeps.
“You should have always been staying in my tent with me. I have let you enjoy your own space because it pleased you, and I enjoy pleasing you and your ridiculous, human whims.”
My ridicu—?
“You want to please me?” I say, now officially peeved. “How about you stop killing people?”
War gives me a piercing look. “There’s another who I seek to please too, Miriam. And unfortunately for you, He wishes differently.”
I survived the bath ordeal.
Barely.
Now War is fully clothed and diligently healing my wounds. This time when he touches me, I’m very aware of his closeness. There’s a peculiar sort of intimacy to seeing the warlord with the kohl scrubbed from his eyes.
I want to reach out and touch him, and if I look too closely into his eyes, I’m sure I’ll see that he wants it too.
So I keep my eyes down.
Once he’s done with his ministrations, he … sticks around.
This is new.
I mean, I’m used to him being in the tent—it is his after all—but up until now, I was mostly passed out. I glance at him as he sharpens a blade and flips through some book that looks way less fun than my own romance novel.
This feels … domestic. Like War is getting that marriage that he keeps harping on about.
I need to get the fuck out of here, stat.
Seriously though, what am I going to do about this situation? I can’t stay here forever. And the longer I’m here, the more the two of us will get used to these accommodations.
That really can’t happen. War’s already too attractive for his own good, and now I know that he’s capable of being disarmingly kind. I have no resistance to any of it.
It doesn’t really matter, regardless. I’m not leaving tonight, when my bones feel like rickety stilts and my skin is still painful to the touch. I’ll stay here, I’ll endure this a little while longer, and then, when I’m physically ready to leave, I will.
Until then—
I grab my woodworking kit and a piece of wood and begin to whittle the branch down, shaving off the bark like the skin of an apple.
Got to make the time freaking pass somehow.
I work in silence, and eventually, my worries fall away and it becomes just me, the grain of the wood, and the steady scrape of my tools. Every so often I smooth my work over with sandpaper, rubbing the arrow shaft until the surface becomes relatively smooth.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
I glance up, only to realize that War’s steady gaze is on me—that his gaze might have been on me for some time. I’ve been so lost in my work I didn’t notice.
“It’s a long story,” I say.
“We’ve got time.”
Damn him and his deep voice. I can’t help but think about his mouth every time he speaks.
I might as well tell him the story. Anything to keep my mind from wandering down the path it wants to take.
I set the piece of wood aside. Around me, wood shavings lay scattered like confetti.
“My mother was a history professor at the Hebrew University,” I say. “One of the courses she taught was on ancient weaponry. She had a lot of books on old weapons and weapon-making.”
Before my mother and sister and I had tried to escape war-torn Israel, I’d already been flipping through those books, my naïve heart set on survival. I foolishly figured that if I could learn how to make weapons, then I could use them to hunt, like some modern day Amazonian.
It was a childish desire that drove an honest interest.
“It took a long time to even make sense of the books, and an even longer time to get just one t
hing right.” But eventually I did. Then one thing became two, and so on. Once I lost my mother and sister and returned to Jerusalem alone and without any sort of income to live off of, I threw myself into my work.
“I made wooden daggers first.” Even that was a process of trial and error. Wood can be rotted, it can be too soft, it can be too brittle. But once I understood a bit more about the nature of it and ways of tempering and fire-hardening, that’s when I was truly able to manipulate the material. “Then I moved onto other weapons.”
I made bows and arrows, testing out softer and harder wood. I learned when to apply heat, how much, and for how long. And I discovered I could repurpose broken glass into arrowheads and thin plastic into fletching. Houses and junkyards were full of these things, as well as string and glue and the odd tool.
My mother’s books had most of the answers, I just had to get creative in how I applied them.
“So you’re self-taught,” War says. He looks impressed, and I’m uncomfortable at how good that makes me feel.
I nod.
“And your fighting skills? Also self-taught?”
I shake my head. “There were some older soldiers who taught me a few basic skills.” Soldiers like my mother. It used to be that most Israelis joined the army for at least two years. But by the time I was of age, there was a new political regime, one that didn’t believe in training women for war. So I had to work with what my mother had taught me, and what a few other, older Israelis were willing to teach.
“They taught you how to shoot a bow?” War says, incredulous.
“Well, no. That was self-taught.” Before the Arrival, guns were the weapon of choice. It was only when firearms stopped working properly that bows and arrows, swords and daggers, maces and axes all came back into fashion. “Why do you want to know?” I ask, self-conscious.
“You are a curious creature, that is all.” He flashes me a sly smile. “A curious, dangerous creature.”
Chapter 20
By the third day, I’m moving up and about again. After another night of War’s warm hands on my skin, I feel nearly back to normal. There are still aches and pains—like if I twist my torso a certain way, my rib injuries flare to life—but if I tread carefully, I can pretend I’m healed.
Which is exactly what I do once I wake up and find War gone—undoubtedly off hacking away at more doomed people. I get up and move about the horseman’s tent, and I’m not going to lie, I snoop the shit out of the place.
I lift pillows and flip through the stack of books piled on a side table. I peer at oil lamps and open some of the horseman’s chests, disappointed when I end up staring down at weapons and more weapons.
Honestly, War’s innermost life is not that intriguing. I was hoping to find that he secretly likes to cross dress or collects Russian nesting dolls or some other weird shit like that.
Instead, I find old maps with cities crossed out. I swallow when I see them.
I throw open the last of his chests, and I exhale when I see what’s inside.
His blood red armor sits at the bottom of it.
His sword, I notice, is absent.
I pull out a vambrace, turning the arm guard over in my hand. The leather is once again in pristine condition, despite the fact that I swear there were bloodstains on it yesterday. I guess at the end of the day, God washes away all sins.
Why isn’t War wearing his gear?
The answer comes a second too late.
“It’s light, isn’t it?”
I jolt at the sound of War’s voice. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s in the doorway of his tent, staring at me, his expression inscrutable.
God, how guilty I look, crouched in front of his chest, holding a piece of his armor.
“You don’t expect that from armor,” he says, heading towards me. “My brothers all wear metal armor, but on the battlefield metal is heavy and cumbersome.”
I set the arm guard back inside the chest and close it. Then I turn to face War. He wears a black shirt, the hilt of his sword peeking out from over his shoulder.
“What about that?” I ask, my chin jutting to his weapon. “Isn’t that … cumbersome?”
“Quite. But I’m fond of it.”
Behind him, the tent flaps rustle open, and a soldier walks in, carrying a tray of food and coffee. He sets the items down on the table, then leaves.
Once we’re alone again, War walks over to the table and pulls out a chair for me.
“Who taught you to offer a woman a seat?” I ask, following him over. I sit down, my eyes on the table setting.
He hasn’t released the back of my chair, and he leans in to whisper in my ear, “The same people who taught you how to poke through people’s things.”
War straightens, and as he does so, I catch sight of a familiar hilt strapped to his arm holster.
“My dagger,” I say as recognition sparks. It was one of the weapons I fought with in Jerusalem. “You kept it.” I’d been sure it was long gone. Seeing it sparks some old emotion.
Without thinking, I reach for it, only to have War catch my wrist.
I give him an incredulous look. “It’s mine.”
“Consider it a trade—you get my dagger, I get yours.”
“That’s not a trade,” I complain, standing. “You kept my weapon without telling me and simply gave me yours. I want mine back.”
My dagger is duller than War’s and the balance is off. I still want it back.
“No.” Just by the tone of his voice I can tell it’s non-negotiable. Ugh.
I glower at him.
“Why do you even want my dagger?” I ask.
There are dozens of weapons in this room alone. There are thousands more throughout camp, and with every city we raid, there are countless more for War to acquire. My humble blade is no match for those.
“I’m … fond of it.”
Just like he’s fond of his sword.
He gestures to the chair again. “Sit down.”
I do so, eyeing the assortment of food and the thick, steaming coffee alongside it.
Rather than taking his own seat, War kneels, pressing his hands to my wounds. By now I’ve gotten used to this routine. It’s still startlingly intimate to have him this close and to feel his flesh pressed to mine, but I’ve come to expect it—even anticipate it.
I’m not right in the head.
“Are you just healing me because you want to fuck me?”
Holy mother of God. Did those words really come out of my mouth?
What is wrong with you, Miriam?
The horseman’s head snaps up to me. He stares for several seconds, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “I healed you for my own reasons. Fucking you is another matter altogether.”
War finishes his work and sits down in the seat next to mine.
And now I’ve got to deal with the twelve tons of sexual tension I’ve introduced into the room.
To distract myself, I force out the words I’ve been meaning to say to him.
“I’m going back.”
War’s eyes move casually to me, but I sense deep tension at my words. “Back where?” His mouth actually lifts a little, like going back in any sense of the phrase is ridiculous and impossible.
“Back to my tent.”
Now War straightens in his seat. He wears a terrible, frightening face, one that causes men to quake before he’s laid a hand on them.
“Why?” It’s a demand more than a question.
“We’re not lovers.”
The deep look the warlord gives me has my core heating.
That will change, his eyes say.
“Not to mention that you’re destroying the entire world,” I say. “It was kind of you to heal me—”
“Kind,” he repeats, like he’s never heard anything so distasteful in his life.
“—but I’m better now, and I want my tent back.”
Had I really ever thought the warlord’s eyes were sad? There’s only violence in them. Soul-devouring,
terrible violence.
He leans forward, and that single action has me wanting to recoil.
“What if I told you no?” he says, his voice low. “What if I told you that you couldn’t leave?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you going to try to stop me when you’ve worked so hard to give me space?”
“Make no mistake, Miriam,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “I can do whatever I please. I plucked you from your first home. I can pluck you from your second one too.”
“Don’t ruin this,” I say softly.
His face flickers, and for a moment I think he’s remembering how I told him I hated him.
“And if I give you your own tent again, who’s to say that you won’t be attacked the moment you’re alone?”
“You let me ride into battle,” I say. “There’s a part of you that clearly trusts your god to protect me.”
“He’s your god too.”
Um, agree to disagree.
“If you force me to stay here,” I say, “you’re no better than those men who attacked me.”
Alright, so that’s a bit of a stretch.
It seems to make logical sense to War, however.
His jaw clenches and he looks away, his nostrils flaring.
“Fine,” he grits out after a moment, his eyes still full of violence. “You can have your tent back—for a time.”
War stands and leans in. “But I will decide when time’s up, and none of your pretty human arguments will change that.”
War is a man of his word. He does indeed give me back my tent later that very day … he just happens to move it right next to his own.
“What is this bullshit?” I demand, staring at the two of our tents sitting side by side. Mine looks laughably tiny next to his.
The horseman stands next to me, surveying the view. I had to all but drag him from his tent to hear me out, and I’m pretty sure he was lapping up my reaction like it was Baklava.
Now he leans in close to me. “You’re welcome.”
You’re welcome? What in the actual fuck?
“This is not what we agreed to,” I say heatedly.
“It’s exactly what we agreed to. Just be glad I didn’t move it inside my own tent. I was tempted, wife.” War eyes me up and down. “How do you feel?”
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 14
