“—oh, I understand plenty,” I say through my teeth. “I understand that you think I’m some helpless damsel who can’t tie her own bootlaces without your say-so.”
Frustration etches into every line of his face. “That’s not what I—”
“—save your breath,” I snap. “I don’t need your lectures or your protection. What I need is for you to read this damn letter.” I thrust the missive at his chest, feeling a petty satisfaction when he has to fumble to catch it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important damsel duties to attend to. Fainting, embroidering, maybe some light swooning if I’m feeling particularly delicate.”
As I turn to storm off, I add over my shoulder, “Oh, and Cenric? Next time Hawke pops into my tent, I’ll be sure to scream your name. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on all the fun.”
I march away, my cheeks burning with anger. Behind me, I hear Cenric mutter a string of curse words.
Good. Let him stew for a while. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into that thick skull of his.
Chapter
Forty-Six
EVERLY
I storminto Morwen’s tent, my anger propelling me forward like a ship caught in a gale. The scent of herbs and spices sweeps over me, but even they can’t soothe my frayed nerves.
“Good morning,” Morwen greets me, her voice as warm as the bubbling porridge in the massive pot in front of her.
I grunt in response and grab a spoon, attacking the porridge with more vigor than necessary.
Morwen studies me as I continue stirring.
Great. Now I’m being analyzed by the camp’s resident wise woman. Just what I need to improve my mood.
“Something troubling you, child?” she asks, her tone gentle.
I snort. “No. I love starting my day by arguing with stubborn, overprotective men who think I need constant supervision.”
Morwen’s eyebrow arches up. “Ah, I see you’ve had a conversation with Cenric.”
“Conversation is a generous term,” I say as I stir the porridge with renewed ferocity. “More like a verbal sparring match where he thinks he’s my personal guard and I’m some helpless damsel who can’t tie her own bootlaces.”
“Why does that upset you?” Morwen asks, her voice maddeningly calm.
I huff, blowing a stray curl out of my face. “Because I’m not a baby. I don’t need a nursemaid hovering over me every second of the day.”
Morwen studies me in silence, her focus unwavering. I shift my weight, suddenly feeling like a naughty child caught stealing a sweet treat.
“Perhaps,” Morwen says slowly, “Cenric’s concern comes from a place of caring, not doubt in your abilities.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a wrinkled hand.
“And perhaps, you might consider that accepting help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you wise.”
Well, damn. I hate it when she makes sense.
“But I don’t ne—”
“—help? Everyone needs help sometimes.”
“I don’t need anyone.” Even as I say the words, they feel false against my tongue.
Ineedmy family. Ineedfriends. Ineedto belong.
“We all need someone,” Morwen says, her words so wise, so calming, as if I’m a blossom she’s pouring rain on and encouraging to grow.
