“You should rest today, Everly. Stay in bed. I’ll have Morwen bring you food.”
“I’m not a fragile flower. I’m not broken.” I push myself up, ignoring the protest of sore muscles. “Just a little bent.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.
Determined to be strong, I lift my chin. “I won’t hide away. I won’t let him win.”
Something flashes across Cenric’s face. Pride? Admiration? “You’re stubborn, you know that?”
Mother has said those words to me many times. “So, I’ve been told.”
“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided to keep you near me,” he says, his voice firm yet laced with an undercurrent of something gentler. “This way, I can make sure that Alvina and Hawke can’t use you.”
“Near you?” I croak out.
Cenric nods.
Being close to him is everything I’ve ever wanted, but the constant proximity will make it more difficult to hide my feelings for him.
“But...” I start, then trail off, uncertainty choking my words.
“But what, Everly?”
I fidget with the edge of my blanket. “What about my duties with Morwen? And...” I hesitate, lowering my voice, as if saying it aloud would make it more real. “What about Hawke? If I’m not gathering information for him...”
A muscle jumps in Cenric’s jaw. “Let me worry about Hawke. Your safety is my priority now.”
“And the others? Won’t they talk if I’m suddenly by your side all the time?”
Cenric shrugs. “Let them talk. I’m their commander. I don’t answer to gossip.”
My mind races. “What about at night?”
“I’ll sleep in here with you.”
Cenric is going to sleep in the same tent with me?
“But won’t people object to you sharing a tent with me?”
“I don’t give a damn what people think.”
I blink, trying to process his words as my thoughts race, conjuring images of us sharing a tent. It’s simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.
“But I’m an outsider,” I blurt out. “You can’t share a tent with me. People will talk. Rumors—”
Cenric cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Right now, quelling the rebellion takes precedence over everything else.”
Everything else. Including propriety, apparently. And my sanity.
I open my mouth to argue further, but the words die on my tongue. What can I say?Sorry, Cenric, I can’t share a tent with you because I might spontaneously combust?
Instead, I settle for a weak, “But—”
“—no buts,” Cenric interrupts again.
I draw in a deep breath, trying to center myself. This is fine. Totally fine. I’ll just be sharing space with the man I’ve been in love with for summers. The man who thinks I’m a spy. The manwho kissed me senseless a few nights ago and stuck a finger inside me.
Damn. Why haven’t I thought about that much? Probably because if I allowed myself to think about it, I’d end up wanting him again, burning again, longing again.
