Page 18 of Prize of the Warlord
“And neither is mine, yet here we are.”
He stares at me, and I notice the thickness of his golden lashes, the way they darken at the tips. His green eyes are muddied in the center, a ring of golden-brown. He can’t be much older than I am, but tiny lines etch the corners of his eyes, born from squinting into the sky, resisting the bright reflection of sunlight on snow or salt.
“My little brother,” he says quietly. “He was born with a body like yours—small and light. Different. His spine, his legs, his lungs—none of it worked right. The healer tried. Nothing we could do. He only lived to his ninth year.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“If we had lived somewhere less harsh, less wretched, with better food, more healers and medicinal resources—perhaps he could have survived longer.”
“That’s why you’re doing this. For him.”
“Not for him. He’s dead. I do it for others like him.”
“And when you spoke to me, when I was dying—you took pity on me because of your brother.”
He pulls himself into a sitting position, agitation vibrating through every movement. “That wasn’t—you didn’t hear me speak to you.”
“But I did.”
“No, you couldn’t have!” he exclaims. “It’s impossible, because I didn’t say any of it aloud. Only in my mind.” He stares at me, desperate and panicked, with eyes full of angry denial.
My mouth falls open in shock.
I heard what he said to mein his mind?
What does that mean?
Before I can respond, Zeha re-enters the tent. “I’ve sent a hawk for the healer. You should eat and drink, Cronan. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
She sets a tray on the bed with her brother and hands me a bowl as well. It’s a kind of grain porridge, mixed with berries.
“Made with water, not milk,” Zeha says. “Jili told me you cannot stomach milk.”
“Yes,” I reply. “Thank you.”
She gives me a small smile, and I remember that the Warlord’s little brother was also hers.
20
After the Warlord and I finish our food, he throws a blanket at my head before sinking into his furs and falling asleep. The fire burns low, but it’s enough to keep warm within the tent. I curl up on the mats with my blanket. It’s a lumpy bed, and my bones will ache in the morning, but I’m so exhausted I barely care.
The arrival of the healer wakes me. He tends quietly to the Warlord’s thigh and arm while I drowse again, sinking and surfacing through sleep.
When the healer leaves, the Warlord rises from the bed, still entirely naked. I pretend to be asleep, breathing steadily, but I watch him furtively through the veil of my eyelashes. I caught a glimpse of his dick when we were traveling and he pissed on the salt, and I glimpsed it earlier tonight, but now I see it fully. He was exaggerating when he said it was as thick as my neck—but it’s still impressive.
He’s half-aroused, and as I watch through slitted eyes, he steps closer to me and palms himself briefly, stroking along his length. A soft curse follows, and he fumbles among the saddlebags at the side of the tent, finding clothes and pulling them on. Then he storms out, his heavy steps receding.
Where is he going? Is he going to touch himself, out there in the cold forest? Will he think of me as he does it? Quivering desire traces the seam between my legs, and I slip my fingers inside my trousers, circling the spot that needs tending so badly. I’m hidden under my blanket, but I don’t dare splay myself wide and play as freely as I want to. I work quickly, frantically, spurring my body toward the pleasure by imagining the Warlord dragging me to the bed, throwing me face-down, and tearing off my pants. I imagine him planting one huge hand on the back of my head to hold me down while he—
The tent flap opens, and I jerk my hand out. Too quick—the motion catches the Warlord’s eye, and his expression shifts. Does he suspect what I was doing?
The white tiger follows him into the tent. “You need to relieve yourself,” says the Warlord. “Kaja and I will go with you so you do not run.”
He unlocks my chain and with one big hand on the back of my neck, he guides me out into the cold dawn light. I’m still wearing my clothes and shoes from the night before, so the bite of the icy air isn’t quite as painful. Still, I can’t imagine living here all the time.
“Is it always this cold?” I ask as he steers me through the trees.
“Almost always.” He stops. “Here. You can piss and shit here.”
