Page 79 of Keeper

Brennah answers readily, her voice steady as she describes her life in a village on the outskirts of Karra. Feyona is more reserved, but she meets my stare directly as she explains that she wanted to be close to her husband, who is one of my warriors.

When I turn to Ava next, something about her demeanor makes me pause. She looks past my shoulder as she speaks. Her story is simple enough—a widow looking for a way to make coin—but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s holding something back.

I keep my expression neutral as I ask a few more pointed questions. Ava’s answers are satisfactory, if a bit vague, and I eventually dismiss all three women with a nod.

Next, I question the stable hands, the laundresses, and the armor smiths. They all seem honest enough, their stories checking out as I cross-reference them with the information Praxis has gathered.

As the day wears on, the tension in my shoulders grows.The dull throb behind my eyes intensifies. But I push through, determined to root out every threat to my people.

By the time the last worker leaves my tent, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the camp. I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face as I try to make sense of everything I’ve learned.

No one stands out as an obvious spy, but I know better than to let my guard down. The rebels are clever, and they’ve managed to infiltrate my camp.

I won’t let it happen again.

Chapter

Forty-Five

EVERLY

Cenric’s accusationechoes in my mind as I drag myself to the washing stand the next morning.

He hates me now. Despises me for betraying him.

I sigh and splash water on my face. Sadly, it does little to improve my mood.

How can I go about my duties like nothing happened? Morwen will expect me to be present and to work hard, yet all I want to do is curl up on the bed and eat something sweet.

Pottery digs into my palms as I grip the edges of the basin. This is all my fault. I knew what I was doing when I allowed myself to get close to Cenric.

I yank my nightdress over my head, tossing it aside with more force than necessary. The cold air teases my exposed skin as I pour more clean water into the basin, then add lavender and lemon balm.

I splash the frigid water over my arms, my neck, my face. Each icy droplet is a shock to my system, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I grab the coarse cloth and scrub. My skin turns pink, then an angry red as I scour every inch, as if I’m trying to wash away more than just dirt.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

What did you expect?

A happily ever after with the nephew of the chieftain?

When I’m finished with my bath—or self-deprecating, more like—I reach for the blue surcoat Cenric gave me. My fingers hesitate against the fabric. I should hate it, this reminder of his kindness before everything went wrong.

But I can’t bring myself to cast it aside.

Instead, I slip the surcoat over my head, smoothing the fabric down my body. The blue hue reminds me of Cenric’s eyes. I shake my head, trying to banish the thought.

The clatter of pots and the whinnying of horses drift through the tent as I grab a brush and work it through my hair. Next, I divide it into three sections, braid them together, and secure the end with a leather cord.

It’s not my neatest work, but it will have to do. I’m certainly not in the mood to start over.

As I turn to my bed to retrieve the fox, a gust of wind whirls around me, materializing into Hawke. I gasp and stumble backward.

Amusement glints in his eyes. “Jumpy today, aren’t we?”

“Do you ever use a door?” I snap. “Or is appearing out of thin air your idea of a grand entrance?”

He smirks. “What’s the fun in a door?”

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