Page 72 of Oathborn
“I’d make a better bard than an Oathborn.” To reach her father on the isles, she would have to pretend to be something she was not. Based on Hazelle’s stories, Zari worried she would never pass as one of them.
“Nonsense. Just keep one hand on your sword, glare a great deal, and do whatever the Queen commands,” Yansin spoke flippantly, as if there was nothing terrifying at all about the fearsome warriors, except for the faint flicker of worry in his eyes, as he glanced her way. “You do understand that about them, right?”
“Understand what? That they serve the Queen?”
“That they have no choice at all but to do so.” Yansin looked up at the sky. “Their loyalty is unyielding, unchanging, unbroken, for as long as the sea crashes upon the shore. Perhaps even longer yet, for the shoreline wears away over centuries and the Oath remains.”
He still wore the sword that belonged to Hazelle’s sister. Zari wet her lips, debating if she should ask for it back. They were safer if he carried it, for he was the far better fighter.
No wonder he’d been a good instructor, as well as reluctant to teach her. “When we stop,” she said. “Might I have another lesson in sword fighting?”
“The smoke didn’t scare you away?”
“No. I’m not easily scared.”
Yansin smiled at that. “I would agree, my brave warrior.” The little nickname made her heart flutter, just a bit, as he passed her the sword. “Now, prove your courage with fifty more repetitions of the maneuver I showed you earlier.”
Just as swiftly, the flutter faded, replaced by the sweat and racing heartbeat of hard work.
Once night fell, they made a simple camp beneath the towering pines. Yansin had her practice with the sword again, and this time, only corrected her footing a few times, before they settled down for another foraged meal. She didn’t recognize all the berries he’d picked as they’d walked, and enjoyed how he told her both the fae and Rhydonian name of each. There was a small, tart pink-ish red berry that he offered her with his usual playful grin, saying, “Careful. This one is calledcaelayri, which translates tokiss-fruit.”
“Kiss fruit?” She raised an eyebrow at the simple-looking berry.
Yansin leaned forward, another one delicately held in his fingers. He brushed the berry over her bottom lip, and Zari, feeling only a little abashed, parted her lips. The tart sweetness hit her tongue like a shock. “Oh,” she whispered, not sure if it was the flavor or his touch that was making her blush. “That was delicious.”
“I would agree,” he murmured, his eyes dark and intense as they gazed upon her. He swallowed hard and broke eye contact. “The name is for the dye one can make from it, to stain their lips, making them more appealing for kissing.”
“Like lipstick.”
“Indeed. Though,” he reached out again, this time to brush his thumb over the corner of her mouth, as if wiping away a bit of the berry juice, “I think yours are perfectly kissable as is.”
Courage, spurred on by all she’d already survived, rose within Zari. She was no longer in the capital, no longer confined by Rhydonian society. She’d survived so much, and the road ahead was still so long. Only a fool would let a chance for joy escape again. “Then do so.”
He needed no further invitation, pulling her into his arms as she finished her sentence. Wasting no time with shy, sweeter kisses, he drank her in. The tartness of the berry still lingered, mingling with the taste of him. She found herself matching his desire, tangling her fingers in his loose hair, melting against the firmness of his body.
Gently, he lowered her onto the bedroll spread out over the mossy ground. The kiss didn’t end, even as he shifted one arm to pillow her head, the other skimming down, over her curves. “Zari,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “I’ve been thinking of you all day.”
“You’ve been with me all day.”
“Not like this.” He kissed down her neck, and she gasped at the slightest prick of his teeth. Not painful, but exhilarating, electric, wild. Her hands tightened on his shirt, refusing to let go. Backlit by the moonlight, his auburn hair a soft curtain around his handsome face, he seemed to glow faintly, a little more ethereal than she’d ever seen him before.
He’d warned her he was raised on the isles. She found herself no longer afraid of what that meant. When he kissed her again, she slid her fingers under his shirt, gliding her palm over the small of his back, the curve of his hipbone. With a moan, Yansin pressed his face into her shoulder. A tremor raced down his spine as his breath came out in a ragged shudder.
Marveling at the power of her simple touch, Zari continued to let her fingertips explore his skin. Turning his head just slightly, Yansin nipped at her neck again, as if driven wild by her caress. Her proud grin soon faded as her fingers grazed over scars, countless old wounds, crisscrossing every bit of his back.
Her hand slid away, dropping back to her side. “Yansin, what have you lived through?”
“Nights far less pleasant than this one, I’ll admit.” He rolled onto his side, so his weight no longer pressed into her. Propping himself up with a hand, he tried for a smile, but it seemed fabricated, no more than a mask hiding that mysterious grief’s return.
“During the war?” she asked.
Closing his eyes, he nodded. That tremor shook him again, and this time, even his lips trembled, as if a sob might burst from them. Zari reached for him, pulling him back into her arms. “Don’t think of those nights,” she told him. “Think of better things.”
“What if I don’t deserve better things?” he whispered, curling around her, his left arm dropping to her hip, his head pillowed on her shoulder. “How can you care for me, when you barely know me at all?”
“I do know you.” She kissed his forehead, as he’d so often kissed hers. “I know your kindness, your gentleness. I know you answer my questions when I ask, and teach me sword fighting, and that you saved my life.”
“You saved mine first.”
