Page 64 of War

“I vow to you, they will pay.”

Chapter 18

I wake tothe feel of hands on me, and the touch is terrible and unwelcome.

I gasp, beginning to struggle.

Where is my dagger?

Why can’t I open my eyes?

The pain returns like an unwelcome admirer, and I sob at the blinding intensity of it.

“Steady, wife,” War’s voice rumbles.

It’s his hands that are on me, I realize. What is he doing?

“Stop stop stop,” I moan, trying to push his hands away. “Ithurts.” Everywhere. It hurtseverywhere.

“I’m sorry, Miriam,” he says, but a moment later, his touch returns.

“No, no, no.” I begin to fight against him.

Why the fuck can’t I see?

These hands are not like the others. They hold me fast, and nothing I do seems to dislodge them.

“I’m not going to harm you, Miriam. Please, I need you to hold still.”

I don’t hold still. All I can remember is the sound of my shirt ripping and the feel of those unwanted hands against my skin, and then the pain. All the pain.

I’m struggling, panting. And then my senses fade away …

This time, when I wake, War’s blurry form fills my vision. He leans over me, his brow creased and his dark eyes heavy. I feel the warm press of his palms against my skin.

“What’s going on?” I murmur.

He frowns, his body close. Alarmingly close. I reach out to push him away. Instead my hand slides uselessly against his cheek.

“Sleep, Miriam.”

“No,” I say almost petulantly as War’s form shifts in and out of focus.

When his features sharpen, I see him give me a whisper of a smile. “You have a fighting spirit, wife, and I am pleased beyond measure by it, but you don’t need to battle me. You are safe now.”

AmI safe with a horseman looming above me?

My head hurts too much for me to decide one way or another.

I try to focus on him, but my eyelids are heavy and they keep closing.

I don’t want to sleep. I really, really don’t. But the pain has worn me out.

My eyelids settle shut and every last worry fades away.

The first thingI notice is the warm touch against my brow. By now I recognizethattouch. The horseman’s hands are defter and kinder than those that attacked me last night.

War brushes my hair back, murmuring things too low for me to understand.

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