Page 201 of War

The word whispers along my skin, moving over it like a tender caress.

I sit up in bed, breathing deeply. The memory of the word seems to echo in that tent.

Surrender, surrender, surrender.

I touch my scar. This wound and the word it represents inextricably bound me and War together. He was sure I was supposed to surrender. The proof of it was carved into my flesh.

Like a strike of lightning, realization hits me.

The message wasn’t for me.

It neverwasfor me. After all, I can’t read Angelic.

The message is for someone who can.

War.

Chapter 55

The next morning, I wake to War’s hands on my stomach.

“Mmm, what are you doing?” I say groggily, stretching in bed.

I feel the horseman’s hair brush my bare skin right before he presses a kiss to my belly. “It’s never going to cease fascinating me,” he says, “that you’re carrying my child.”

I blink my eyes open and thread one of my hands through his dark locks, which are mussed from sleep.

“Do you know what it is?” I ask.

I mean, he knows a shitload of other things … maybe he’ll know the baby’s sex.

War draws circles on my stomach, his expression soft.

His mouth curves into a small smile. “Human, I imagine. Or close enough to it.”

I laugh and push at him, though I’m not entirely sure he meant it as a joke. “Do you know whatgenderthe child is?”

He looks at me fondly. “Even my knowledge has its limits. We shall find out together.”

I pull him to me, giving him a kiss on the lips. “Trading death for life,” I say when I break away. “It’s a good look on you.”

He takes my face in his hands. “I didn’t know I was capable of feeling this way, wife. Happiness is a new emotion—”

The tent flap is thrown open, and a phobos rider steps inside, interrupting us.

I yank the bedsheet up over myself, covering my breasts. Just like War, I’ve taken to sleeping in the nude. So shoot me, my clothes are becoming too tight.

War sits up, not at all bothered by his own exposed skin. “Get out.” He sounds just like his old self. Full of confidence and pent up violence.

The rider, a burly, balding man with a thick beard, looks a little unsteady. He gives a quick bow, then rushes in to say, “With all due respect, My Lord, the residents of Karima are riding out to ambush us. If we want to stop them, wemustleave now.”

I glance at War, alarmed. Yesterday, the horseman was dead-set on laying down his sword, but what happens when the humans are the ones to attack? Does he stand by his words, or does he make an exception?

War stands, utterly naked and completely uncaring, swaggering across the room to grab his pants.

The phobos rider looks away abruptly. Then, muttering some quick excuse, ducks out of the room.

I sit up, the blankets pressed tightly to me, watching as the horseman pulls on his black clothing, then his armor. Lastly, he straps his massive sword to his back.

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