He huffs, looking equal parts irritated and faintly amused, like he’s wondering how he got saddled with me in the first place. “This is fun for you?”
I grin, bending down to cup water in my hands. “I try to make everything fun. Just to annoy you, Lord Grumpypants.” I’m not quite ready to call him by his name just yet. Somehow that makes him seem a little too…human.
He mutters something under his breath but he turns around, crossing his arms as he waits.
Smirking, I quickly strip and lower myself into the water, trying to wash the last day off me, the almost freezing water jolting away any sleepiness I left in me. Glancing around, I take stock of my surroundings. It all just looks like brush on more brush. I wouldn’t even know what direction to run in. Not that I have any grand escape planned right this moment, but it never hurts to scope things out. Just in case.
“What I wouldn’t give for a towel right now,” I murmur as I finish washing. Without a word, Rylan whips off his shirt and throws it over his shoulder, still facing pointedly away. I laugh as I emerge from the water, picking up the shirt and quickly use it to dry off as well as I can. It feels deliciously warm against my skin from his body and his earthy scent lingers on it, which is surprisingly… nice. I glance at his turned back, and quickly bury my face in the shirt, taking a deep breath. Damn. I…should not have done that.
Pulling my wrinkled dress back on, with my wrung out still damp underwear in my hands, I say “All right, I’m decent.”
Rylan turns around, his eyes catching on my wet hair as I dry it with his shirt. His gaze slides over me in a way that’s maybe a little more intense than necessary. For a second, I swear I see something—just a tiny something—in his eyes before he catches himself and reverts back to his usual stony expression.
I throw his now drenched shirt back at him, trying to the sight of his wide, toned chest in just an undershirt, and run back to the camp shouting over my shoulder. “See how fun that was?”
The guards are busyingthemselves around the camp when we return, tidying up and preparing breakfast. I find myself wandering over to them to put some distance between Rylan and me. Picking up a spoon, I plunge it into the pot over the fire and stir the porridge as it cooks to stop it from burning. “Thank you for dinner last night; it was delicious,” I say.
The three guards stop and share a curious look. Two nod silently in response and return to packing up the camp, while the third squats down next to me, handing me a small bag of brown sugar.
“I’m Mathis,” he says, his voice friendly, and he offers me a warm smile. He moves around the camp with an easy grace, his tall, muscular frame somehow light on his feet despite his size. His broad shoulders stretch against his tunic as he bends to adjust the fire, his movements fluid and efficient. His general manner is warm, open, one that instantly reminds me of Janus. There’s something comforting in it, an effortless kindness that feels like a rare, steady light amidst the chaos. I can’t help but watch him, that sense of familiarity tugging at my heart.
“That’s Grellor over there,” he says, pointing to the guard who looks like a bear in armour, who grunts at the mention of his name. “And the ugly one is Yosef.” The third and youngest guard turns and rolls his piercing green eyes before tying his bedroll onto his pack.
“You snore like a drunken elephant with a head cold,” I tease Mathis, feeling instantly at ease with him.
“It keeps the beasts away. And by beasts”—he leans in and lowers his voice—“I mean Grellor.”
Despite the situation, I giggle at his joke. It feels good to. “What other tips do you have for keeping the beasts away?”
“Well, Grellor swears by not showering, and Yosef just has to look at an animal, and it goes running. Works on women and small children as well.”
That wins him a full-blown laugh. “Oh shush, he looks like a prince,” I say honestly. Yosef has the kind of chiselled face that probably has him walking through life leaving behind a trail of broken hearts.
Mathis raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you think? You often have fantasies about dreamy handsome princes?”
My laugh turns into a guffaw. “Only the ones from our folklore. I don’t think I’d like to meet a real prince, nor would one want to meet me. I’m not good with bowing and scraping.”
Mathis chuckles. “No? Colour me surprised. You seem just like the type to curtsy and follow every sentence with ‘Your Highness.’”
The snort I let out is anything but ladylike. “Only if it’s preceded with ‘let me remove that royal sceptre you seem to have lodged up your behind.’”
Mathis stares at me, stunned, and then lets out a roar, slapping his hand over his knee, practically choking. I grin, delighted that at least someone was enjoying my humour. I give the pot another stir before pouring half the bag of sugar into the porridge.
“Holy fuck! Are you trying to kill us all? That’s almost a week’s worth of sugar!” he bellows.
“I like it sweet.” I shrug. “And look”—it’s my turn to lean and whisper to him—“a certain someone could use a little sweetness to help get that sour look off his face.”
I expect Mathis to laugh at that comment too,but the sound of boots crunching on the snow next to me has him tilting his head up, and his mouth clamps shut.
Speaking of the sour puss himself.
“Mathis, take the horses for another drink before we leave,” Rylan practically barks at the guard sitting next to me.
Mathis gives me a sly wink before he gets up with a murmur of agreement.
“You don’t have to do that,” Rylan says, watching me stir the pot, which does seem to appear to be more sugar than oats at this point.
“I needed to do something since you ordered away the only person who’s willing to talk to me,” I reply with a shrug.
