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“Beautiful?” He scoffs lightly.

“Yes. You’re beautiful. A big glorious god-man in furs and armor. You don’t smell great right now—sweat and blood and all—I don’t smell like a patch of flowers either—but you’re still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and that’s what I hate the most about you. That, and your big, noble, zealous heart. I hate you—” I’m half-sobbing now, clutching the pommel of the saddle and quaking with feelings so powerful I fear they might shake me apart. “I hate you so much, I hate you. Why couldn’t you have left me at home? I was comfortable there—I was—I was fine.”

I crumble, hunched over and weeping. My tears fall into the mane of the weary horse, onto his bowed neck.

The Warlord doesn’t reply. He holds his stallion at a walk, lingering far behind the rearmost horse in the company. I’m not sure if the warriors ahead can hear me crying—until one of them breaks off from the group and rides back to us. It’s the big man who slung me over his shoulder the night of my capture.

He stares at me, his thick beard curved in a disgusted frown. “Want me to gag her for you?” he asks.

“No,” answers the Warlord.

The warrior pulls his horse alongside ours. “I can take her into the woods—give her a lesson like I gave to that wench in the butcher’s shop—you know, the one from the village on the ridge, with the waterfall?”

“No,” says the Warlord, in a deeper tone.

“Suit yourself.” The raider shrugs. “Let me know if you need me to take the sniveling bitch awhile. I’ll keep her nice and quiet so we can ride in peace. Best way to shut a southern whore’s mouth is to show her something worth crying about.” He sidles his horse closer, reaches past my bedraggled braids, and jerks my chin up. “She’s got a pretty face. I’d like to paint it. Got the paint right here.” He releases my face and chuckles, cupping between his legs.

The Warlord’s huge sword is out and pointed at the raider’s throat faster than I can blink. “Ride on,” he says, a deathly growl.

The other warrior stares, dumfounded, at the massive blade angled for his neck. Gathering the reins, he urges his horse ahead, returning to the rest of the group.

Only after the Warlord sheathes the weapon do I realize that I’ve stopped crying.

40

The Warlord’s settlement is nestled in a cozy valley between two great mountains. On either side of the cluster of wooden cabins, the mountain slopes sweep upward, one shadowed and the other bathed in sunshine, gleaming so brightly I can’t look at it long. The mountains flanking the village seem infinitely tall and sharp, and behind the settlement more mountains rise—beautiful icy spikes in the blue sky.

Smoke trails from the cabins, its savory scent wafting toward us on the breeze.

“Are all the warlords’ settlements this pretty?” I ask.

The Warlord makes a pleased hum in his throat. “No.”

As we ride into the village, I notice people occupied with cleaning and tanning hides, crafting arrows, salting fish. A sweat-slicked woman hammers weapons at a forge, her heavy coat lying aside over a chair. Several older children, bundled in furs, operate butter churns or small grain grinders, while younger ones run about playing.

The snow is frozen so hard it creaks beneath the horses’ hooves as we tread the packed road through the village. Yet, cold as it is, it seems the whole village is out enjoying the sun and light while it lasts.

Up ahead, the rest of the company is already dismounting, and a few people approach to greet them—not a mad rush of giddy delight, but a stoic, pleased acknowledgement that they have returned whole. These forays and raids are commonplace here, and loss must also be commonplace.

A woman rises from whatever task she was doing—something with leather and needles—and approaches the Warlord’s horse. She has striking bone structure, cheeks flushed with health, and a mass of chestnut braids crowning her head. She’s buxom, wide-hipped, and lovely.

Kaja growls at her approach, and the Warlord orders, “Hush,” in his alpha tone. The white tiger retreats, still snarling.

“Someday your cat will learn to like me,” says the woman, smiling.

The Warlord dismounts without answering, and she steps forward and kisses his cheek.

My lips pinch together. This, then, is the woman he had planned to marry.

I slide off the horse without help—and promptly stumble because my legs are stiff from traveling. Kaja sidles up to me, and I use her shoulder for support.

“Thank you,” I tell her, scrunching my fingers into her ruff. She rumbles, pressing nearer.

When I lift my eyes, I see the Warlord and the woman watching us. Pride threads through my heart. Holding my head high, I walk forward, my hand still resting on Kaja’s neck.

“This is your prize?” the woman says. “Daughter of the district leader? Betrothed to the third prince of Cheimhold?” She adds something in her own dialect, but I don’t need to understand the words to mark the scathing tone.

The Warlord’s mouth is a hard line, his eyes glittering with purpose, anger, or pride—I can’t discern which. Maybe all three.