Page 75 of War

He hasn’t released the back of my chair, and he leans in to whisper in my ear, “The same people who taught you how to poke through people’s things.”

War straightens, and as he does so, I catch sight of a familiar hilt strapped to his arm holster.

“My dagger,” I say as recognition sparks. It was one of the weapons I fought with in Jerusalem. “You kept it.” I’d been sure it was long gone. Seeing it sparks some old emotion.

Without thinking, I reach for it, only to have War catch my wrist.

I give him an incredulous look. “It’smine.”

“Consider it a trade—you get my dagger, I get yours.”

“That’s not a trade,” I complain, standing. “You kept my weapon without telling me and simply gave me yours. I want mine back.”

My dagger is duller than War’s and the balance is off. I still want it back.

“No.” Just by the tone of his voice I can tell it’s non-negotiable. Ugh.

I glower at him.

“Why do you evenwantmy dagger?” I ask.

There are dozens of weapons in this room alone. There are thousands more throughout camp, and with every city we raid, there are countless more for War to acquire. My humble blade is no match for those.

“I’m … fond of it.”

Just like he’s fond of his sword.

He gestures to the chair again. “Sit down.”

I do so, eyeing the assortment of food and the thick, steaming coffee alongside it.

Rather than taking his own seat, War kneels, pressing his hands to my wounds. By now I’ve gotten used to this routine. It’s still startlingly intimate to have him this close and to feel his flesh pressed to mine, but I’ve come to expect it—evenanticipateit.

I’m not right in the head.

“Are you just healing me because you want to fuck me?”

Holy mother of God. Did those words really come out of my mouth?

What iswrongwith you, Miriam?

The horseman’s head snaps up to me. He stares for several seconds, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “I healed you for my own reasons. Fucking you is another matter altogether.”

War finishes his work and sits down in the seat next to mine.

And now I’ve got to deal with the twelve tons of sexual tension I’ve introduced into the room.

To distract myself, I force out the words I’ve been meaning to say to him.

“I’m going back.”

War’s eyes move casually to me, but I sense deep tension at my words. “Back where?” His mouth actually lifts a little, likegoing backin any sense of the phrase is ridiculous and impossible.

“Back to my tent.”

Now War straightens in his seat. He wears a terrible, frightening face, one that causes men to quake before he’s laid a hand on them.

“Why?” It’s a demand more than a question.

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