Page 110 of War

God is he angry, the violence isn’t just in his eyes anymore. It’s spilling all over his face, from his tight jaw to his flared nostrils. But he stares at me as I come closer as though he’s never encountered someone like me—and he might be willing to hear me out.

I take War’s hand. “What do you want from me?” I ask.

He grimaces. “I will not make another bargain with you.”

“I’m not talking about bargains,” I say. “Back in your tent you told me that you wanted more than just my body. Do you still want that?”

War’s upper lip is twitching in anger and distaste. Probably not the best moment to ask himthiskind of question. I think right now, he’d like nothing more than to annul our fake little marriage.

I squeeze his hand. “This is how you get everything,” I say softly.

His concessions, his kindness, his altruism and mercy—those are the things that will win me over.

“I will get what I want from you either way.”

“You won’t,” I say, steel in my voice.

The horseman’s gaze thins.

“You want me to stop hating you?” I say. “You want me to love you absolutely?”

At the wordlove, War straightens, like I’m finally speaking his language.

“This is how you get me to love you,” I say. It feels wrong promising the horseman things I don’t intend to give. And maybe he knows that because he looks at me for a long time.

He judges men’s hearts. What’s he finding inside mine?

The warlord turns from me and looks at the child. He grimaces.

His gaze flicks back to mine, and he gives me a final, long look, his upper lip still twitching with anger. “For your soft heart,” he says bitterly.

Dear God, did that actually …work?

War leaves my side, heading for Zara and her nephew. As he gets closer, Zara clutches the boy tight to her chest.

“No,” she begs.

“It’s alright, Zara. Truly,” I say. At least I hope it’s alright.

The horseman kneels down next to her, studying the boy’s injury. Reaching out, he rips the toddler’s shirt apart, causing Zara to jolt.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

Ignoring her, War reaches out, his hand hovering right above the wound. I can see his fierce frown. After a long moment, he presses his hand to the boy’s skin, and I see the toddler’s body shudder.

I move towards them, drawn in by War.

The horseman’s other hand moves to the arrow shaft.

“Brace him,” War instructs Zara as he fits his fingers around the weapon. “I’m going to take this out, and he’s not going to like it.”

Nodding, Zara wraps her arms more tightly around her nephew.

With a single, deft jerk, War rips the arrow from the toddler’s body.

The boy wakes with a shrill scream, beginning to kick and thrash. In a very real sense he’s fighting for his life.

Just as soon as the arrow is out, War’s hand is back on the injury, despite the boy’s bucking. The horseman stays there for a long time, even as the toddler continues to thrash and wail against his hold. War’s grip is unyielding, and eventually, the little boy loses his fight. He whimpers, then falls to exhausted silence.

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