Page 67 of War

I grab the dagger War gave me and I force myself to stand anyway—

Holy balls, I’m going to barf. I’m going to barf all over War’s bed right now, and that holds none of the appeal it would’ve a day ago.

I force my sickness back down and stagger over to the table, pushing my dark brown hair out of my eyes. With a heave, I plop down in a chair, setting my weapon on the table.

I don’t think I should’ve gotten up. Things feel … broken. Or rather, freshly mended, like my bones are brittle twigs set to snap in the wind.

Spread out before me is a platter full of dried Turkish apricots and figs and dates, olives, cured meat—probably goat or sheep becauseeverythingthese days is goat or sheep, cheese cut and arranged, and several loaves of pita bread. Next to it all is a coffee pot and a gawa cup filled with thick Turkish coffee.

The coffee has long since gone cold, the pita is a little hard, and the cheese has dried out some, but it all tastes like motherfucking heaven. Not even bruises and a split lip can stop that.

As I eat, I look around me again. It’s weird to be in here, in War’s tent, not just as some sort of visitor but as aguest—and an injured one at that.

You are not a guest, you are my wife. I can practically hear War’s response even now.

I finish shoveling food into my face, and once I’m done, I sit there, putting off the walk back to the bed.

Time to inspect the rest of my injuries.

I glance down at myself. My ripped shirt reveals mottled, discolored skin. I gingerly move the ripped fabric out of the way to get a better look. Ugh. Right now, my flesh looks more akin to that of the zombies I fought yesterday than it does healthy human skin. Everything is swollen and discolored.

I’m about to turn my attention to the lower half of my body when I hear the sound of footfalls heading my way. I pull my shirt together as best I can.

The tent flaps are thrown open, and War strides in, his expression stormy. When he sees me at the table, his step falters, his face turning fierce in a whole different manner.

“Miriam.” His voice is raw and gravely.

I find I like the sound of my name on his lips. He makes me sound …formidable. I could use a good helping of formidable today.

War walks over to the table and pulls out a chair. He sits down next to me, surveying the food then my face. Right now the horseman is all purpose and commanding energy, and I feel like squashed fruit.

War reaches for his upper arm, his wavy hair shifting with the action.

I tense when I see him grab the dagger sheathed there.

The warlord extends the weapon to me. “This is yours.”

I stare down at the weapon—hisweapon. The one I took from him when I first arrived. He was carrying it in that upper arm holster then just like he is now.

“It belongs to you,” I say.

He sounds maybe a little exasperated when he says, “Takeit.”

Alright—I mean, I’m not going to fight this demon over a blade.

I take the dagger from him and set it next to the other dagger he gave me.

“How do you feel?” he asks for the second time today.

“Like shit,” I answer for the second time today.

He cracks a smile at that.

I glance around us, making sure my eyes land anywhere but him. “Where do I go?”

“You don’t go,” he says. “You’re staying here.”

I begin to protest, but then the horseman takes my arm, lifting a sleeve of my shirt to study the bruising. “It looks better.” His eyes move to mine. “But you look tired.”

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