Page 77 of War

Like a bloody mess.

I lift a shoulder. “Better,” I say begrudgingly. Very, very begrudgingly.

His gaze sweeps over me. He gives a short nod. “Then we will pack up and ride out tomorrow—after your attackers face their judgement, of course.”

With that ominous final line, he leaves.

Chapter 21

The next morning, War wakes me from my new tent.

I know it’s him from the moment his warm, firm touch meets my skin. I still jolt at the sensation. It’s going to take a while to completely erase the attack from my memory.

“Rise, Miriam,” he says, already retreating from my tent. “The day has come.”

I frown, rubbing my eyes. “What day?”

But then his words from yesterday rush back in.

I’m going to have to face my attackers. That thought makes me both hot and cold at once.

I sit up, running my hands through my hair. I take a deep breath, wishing for a cup of Turkish coffee. I’d drink it, sludge and all, if it could ready me for this day.

Pulling on my boots, I step outside, squinting against the brutal glare of the sun. War is several meters ahead of me, and he’s walking like he knows I’ll follow. The bastard. I hate being predictable.

The horseman leads me to the clearing at the center of camp, where most of the horde has already gathered. The crowd parts like the sea to let War and me through, closing seamlessly behind us.

It’s only once we get past them that I get a clear view of the three men who stand bound and beaten, several armed phobos riders spread out behind them.

The wind is nearly knocked out of me.

My attackers.

I can still feel their hands on me and hear the rip of fabric as they tore through my shirt. I was so helpless then.

But now the tables have turned.

My gaze moves from one bound man to the next. I recognize one of my attackers as the man from the first day, the one who called dibs on me. The others are strangers.

Looking at their faces in broad daylight makes them far less frightening. Maybe it’s that they’re the ones who look terrified, or maybe it’s the fact that they can’t be much older than me. In a different world, they could’ve been the men I went to school with.

But that’s notthisworld.

A phobos rider breaks away from his comrades, coming forward to hand me a weapon. I take the sword he gives me, then stare dumbly at it.

“What is this?” I ask War.

His upper lip curls in distaste as he stares at the men. “Wedaw.”

Justice.

It takes several seconds for realization to dawn on me.

“You want me tokillthese men?” I ask the horseman.

In response, War folds his arms, saying nothing. Whatever gentleness he showed me over the last few days, it’s gone. This is uncompromising War, whose will reigns absolute.

I glance back at the men.

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