CHAPTER
14
ATIRA WATCHED AS
HEATH FIDGETED IN THE depths of his bed. “What did you
say?”
“You heard me,” Heath
growled. “The only reason Marcus sent me into the forest to gather
wood is that I was the only warrior with an axe.”
“We have axes—” Atira
protested, but Heath cut her off.
“Only ones that
you’ve stolen.” Heath’s voice was sharp, ringing against the stone
walls. “Everything you have, with the exception of gurt and gurtle
fur, is stolen. Looted.”
“We
raid—”
“Exactly,” Heath
snapped. “You raid, loot, steal—”
“Steal?” Atira sat
straight up. “We do not—”
“Steal,” Heath raised
himself on his elbows. “It’s a hard truth, but it is the truth, and
I probably should ask for your token.”
She glared at
him.
Heath’s eyes dropped
to her breasts, and she watched as he turned his head toward the
fire and swallowed hard. She felt a rush of pleasure that she
affected him that way, even as her anger at his words
rose.
“The point is that
you make nothing,” he growled. “And gurt and gurtle pads don’t
count. The people of the Plains destroy, they don’t create.” Heath
rolled onto his side. “I suspect that is part of the change Keir
wants to bring to your people.” He glanced over at her. “All I am
saying is that the ways of Xy aren’t evil or stupid. You know
better than that.”
Atira felt some of
her anger fade, but she wasn’t quite ready to concede the battle.
“As you say,” was all she said.
The silence fell
between them, and all that she could hear was the crackle of the
flames and Heath shifting in his bed. The air was laced with the
smell of burning wood and old spices. Atira tried to relax into the
comfort of her bedroll, but sleep eluded her. Maybe because she was
trying hard to ignore the truth of Heath’s statements.
And the Warprize’s
request of the Warlord still bothered her. That a bonded couple
would plan and commit to each other even beyond the snows . .
.
She’d never had an
interest in bonding. Never saw any benefit to it, truth be told.
Why imprison yourself with promises to any one person?
Heath and his demands
of bonding . . . bonding was for special people. There was nothing
extraordinary about her or Heath. His demands were
foolish.
She sighed as she
remembered the look on Lara’s face and on Keir’s. They shared
something that stirred her. That made wanting more seem almost . .
. possible. Was it?
“Enough of this.”
Heath’s voice cut through her thoughts, startling her. He sat up in
bed and threw back his blankets. “Lara is right. I can’t get
comfortable.”
Atira blinked as he
stood and stalked close to stand over her. Those thin trous left
nothing much to wonder about, and she felt heat bloom within her as
he drew closer.
But Heath just
gathered up his bedroll. “Come on,” he said, heading for the
shuttered window. “Bring your bedroll.” He snagged up his sword,
then turned back to his press. “You’d better wear one of my
tunics.”
“Where are we going?”
Atira whispered, getting to her feet. Heath tossed her a tunic and
then turned to the window. “Where?” she repeated, as she pulled the
spice-scented cloth on over her head.
Heath was outlined
against the window as he lifted the bar and opened the shutters.
“Out,” was all he said.
THERE WAS JUST ENOUGH
LIGHT TO SEE BY, although Heath knew the way well enough that he
could have done it blindfolded. He jumped over to the roof of the
shed and held out his hand for Atira.
She ignored it and
landed beside him with ease.
He puffed out a
breath at her stubbornness, and then led the way along the roof,
back toward the tree that they had climbed. But instead of climbing
down, Heath ducked under the branches and along the roof to the
next building over. Here the slate was only slightly slanted, and
the stone beneath his feet was warm.
“What is this?” Atira
asked as she came to stand close, her voice little more than a
whisper. From here she could see more of the courtyard, which
contained a well and what looked to be a sparring
circle.
“The baking ovens,”
Heath whispered back, kneeling to lay out his bedroll. “The cooks
keep a steady fire going all day, so the stone will be warm for
hours. I used to climb out here all the time and watch the
stars.”
She hesitated. “We’ll
fall.”
“We won’t fall,”
Heath said.
Atira looked at the
edge of the roof doubtfully. “We’ll—”
“Move slowly and keep
your feet pointed toward the edge,” Heath said. “You won’t
fall.”
Atira set about
spreading her bedroll next to his. “This is what Xyians do when
they can’t sleep?”
“Hardly,” Heath
chuckled as he stretched out, his feet inches from the edge of the
roof. “But I never got caught. The tree blocks the view from the
castle, and no one comes out here at night. Mama has a flock of
chickens that she keeps in a coop, but they are penned at dusk. As
long as we’re quiet, they won’t put up a fuss.”
Atira placed her
weapons close, and then she settled onto her bedding, rolling onto
her side to face him. Heath admired the way her hips shifted under
his tunic, offering glimpses of the shadowed area between her
thighs.
He tore his gaze away
and stared up at the night sky. The heat of the roof was coming up
through the gurtle pads. He should have been relaxing into it, but
he still felt tense. Tight.
It didn’t help that
Atira was staring at him, her head propped up with one
hand.
“I should have the
tree cut down,” he said. “If I could figure out how to use it to
gain access, someone else can do the same.”
“That seems wrong,”
Atira said. “A thing that has grown there for so long dies because
it is an inconvenience to you?”
Heath stretched his
arms over his neck and arched his back, trying to work out the
kinks in his shoulders. “There is truth to that. But it would be
foolish to leave it there.”
“Sit up,” Atira
commanded.
Heath sat up on the
bedding, his legs crossed. Atira settled behind him and started to
work his shoulders. “Foolish to suffer when I can work those knots
out.”
Heath grunted as she
started to knead his muscles. It felt good, and without thinking,
he sighed.
“That’s better.”
Atira’s voice was a warm whisper in his ear.
“The tree is a
weakness,” Heath said. “That wasn’t a fear before, when Xymund was
King. But now . . .” He straightened as Atira worked her way down
his spine. “Now it needs to be addressed.”
“As does the state of
the warriors in your guard,” Atira said. “Detros is a man you
trust, but look at the size of his belly.”
Heath shook his head.
“Don’t be fooled. Detros may not be young and fast, but he knows
the men well, and their strengths and weaknesses. He knows the
castle, too. He’d be a good choice to lead the Guard, after—” Heath
cut off his words, not sure he wanted to talk about the future. Not
now. Not yet.
Atira didn’t seem to
notice. She was stroking his arms now, tracing down them with her
fingertips. The cloth of the tunic she wore brushed against his
skin, and he could smell the spices rising from the warmth of her
body. He drew the scent in, breathing deeply.
Atira chuckled,
seemingly sure of herself, and her hands rose to his chest,
stroking over his nipples.
“I need to know
something,” Heath whispered.
“Yes,” Atira said,
and it wasn’t a question. Her hands drifted lower, close to his
trous.
“If you are so
against bonding with me, why are you trying to seduce
me?”
Atira jerked her
hands back, her anger flaring once again.
Heath looked over his
shoulder at her, his blue eyes deep in the fading
light.
Atira flushed, but
lifted her chin. “Try? I don’t have to try hard. You want
me.”
She gestured to the
front of his trous. “Deny that.”
“I don’t.” Heath
turned his back. “But I want more. Much more.”
“City-dweller ways,”
Atira snorted, moving over to her bedroll to sprawl on its length.
“Can’t it just be about pleasure? Enjoying ourselves?”
“I desire you,
Atira,” Heath said. “You are the air I need to breathe, the very
heart of me.” He knelt on his side, propping his head on his hand.
“I want more than sex, more than sharing. I want to create a life
with you. Sharing our hearts, our laughter and sorrow, our plans.
How can I make you see that—”
“I see that your body
hungers,” Atira said. “As does mine.”
She reached for his
groin, but Heath caught her wrist. “No. Bonding is more than sex.
How can I make you understand that—”
“Fine,” Atira snapped
as she pulled her hand back. She sat up and pulled off the
tunic.
“What are you doing?”
Heath growled.
Atira rolled the
tunic into a pillow and lay back slowly. “If you will not see to my
pleasure, I will take my own.” She arched her back, and cupped her
breasts in her hands, closing her eyes as her nipples
tightened.
A strangled noise
came from Heath’s direction, but she ignored him, keeping her eyes
closed. “You were right, the stones are warm, and the air is sweet
on my skin.” Atira pinched her nipples, rolling them between her
fingers. She drew one leg up, and flexed her hips.
“Can you smell my
desire, Heath?” she asked. She eased her eyes open just a bit so
that she could see Heath’s face. It might have been set in stone,
his eyes glittering as his chest heaved. “Can you taste the salt of
my skin on your lips?”
She moved her right
hand down, stroking the skin of her belly. “I want your touch,” she
whispered. “I want you, deep within me.” She moved her fingers
lower, just touching the top of her mound as she let her leg fall,
exposing her folds. “But if I can’t have—”
Heath
pounced.
He grabbed for her
wrists, trying to pin her with his body. But Atira fought back,
using his weight against him, rolling them over so that she was on
top, flushed with her victory.
Heath growled and
rolled them back onto the pads, half on, half off, his leg pressed
between her, forcing them apart.
Atira chuckled, and
used her hips to flip him again, determined to win.
Heath’s eyes went
wide, and she shrieked as they rolled off the roof.