Page 21 of War

Then tell me, wife, howdoI get to touch you?

“You don’t.”

He smiles at me, like I’m charming and quaint and extremely ridiculous in the most endearing way.

“Gocheune dekasuru desvu.”

We’ll see about that.

I back away from the horseman then. He watches me avidly but doesn’t try to call me back to his side. At some point, I turn on my heel, my filmy skirt swishing around my ankles, and melt into the crowd.

I’m almost disappointed. After all that fanfare the women made about presenting me to the horseman, I would’ve thought the mighty War would’ve done more than mutter a few words and gaze at me.

But it’s that gaze that I can still feel against my back like a brand.

I glance over my shoulder and meet those inquisitive, violent eyes. The corner of his mouth curls into a challenging smile.

That’s all it takes for me to do the one thing I hate the most: flee.

I sit likea fool in the near darkness of my tent for several hours. Even from here I can hear the party raging on, and I can smell food cooking.

I would slip out and grab a bite to eat, except that I would then have to show my face. It’s bad enough that I ran, but at least it was some sort of exit. To show back up as though nothing happened …

I can see War’s challenging, taunting gaze. He would enjoy that. He’d think of it as another opening. That’s really what stops me.

The world might be coming to a bloody end, but damn it if I don’t skip a meal just to save face.

So I ignore the smell of meat, and after lighting the small oil lamp Tamar gave me, I read the dog-eared romance novel left in my tent and idly debate how horrible of an idea it would be to burn the camp down.

Amongst all the distant conversation, I hear footsteps approach. Instinctively, I feel my muscles tense.

After everything War said to me, I expect to be carted away to his tent, so I’m not surprised when the flaps to my own tent rustle, and Tamar enters my borrowed residence.

“I’m not going,” I say.

“Going where?” she asks.

I frown. “You’re not taking me to his tent?”

“War’s?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “There are plenty of willing women the horseman can choose from if he wants to enjoy a warm body tonight. He doesn’t need for it to beyou.”

Other women? I imagine those heavy, assertive hands settling on other flesh, and Iscowl.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Tamar says, changing the subject.

She sits down next to me. “I heard you two talking earlier,” she says, her words hushed. She leans in close. “How do you know the horseman’s language?” she asks, her voice hushed.

I shake my head.

I’m about to deny it when she says, “We all saw you communicate with him,” she insists.

I hadn’t realized anyone was watching the exchange that closely.

I take Tamar in. “I don’t know what I heard,” I admit, “or why he spoke with me at all. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I’ve got. I don’t understand any of this.”

Tamar searches my face. Eventually she nods and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “War goes through women.” She says this like it’s some sort of confession, and I feel a little sick. I really don’t want to know about War’s personal relationships.

“If you want to be over and done with him,” she continues, “just give in for a night or two.”

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