Between Tides Thunder(23)

His lips curve into a sinful smirk, and I immediately regret my question. My face burns hotter than the crackling fire. “Never mind,” I mutter. “Don’t answer that.”

The amused smile doesn’t leave his stupidly handsome face, but Zevayr doesn’t say anything else.

It’s me who can’t keep my tidesforsaken mouth shut. A niggling curiosity keeps prodding my mind, coupled with the barbed, green tendrils of an emotion I’d rather not name.

“Have you been with … many women?”

A beat.

“Define ‘many.’”

Tides drown me in every lifetime.

“More than five.”

He doesn’t answer, but his lips twist into a soft smile that’s somewhere between a teasing grin and an apology.

“It’s not fair,” I huff, tearing my gaze away. The barbed tendrils curl around my heart and squeeze. “There’s no purity test you need to worry about.”

“You’re right,” he agrees easily. “It isn’t fair. The purity test is archaic.”

A flicker of surprise wells in my chest. “Really? You wouldn’t care if your wife wasn’t pure?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t care. If I … loved her, I’d probably be burning with jealousy at the thought of her with someone else.” His voice is tight, hands clenching and unclenching over his knees. A rain drop lands on my cheek. I frown, looking up at the sky. He shoots me a faint smile, but it’s more teeth than anything else. “There’d be a perpetual storm over my head. But I wouldn’t begrudge her something that happened before she was mine. I’d hope she wouldn’t begrudge me the same.” The flames crackle, and he stokes the fire with a long branch, his eyes fixed firmly on his task. “And it wouldn’t be anyone’s business but mine and hers. I don’t see the need to parade the knowledge of her alleged ‘purity’ before anyone else.”

I swallow hard. “Does Faramir share your sentiments?”

Zevayr’s face shutters as soon as his brother’s name crosses my lips.

“No. He’ll insist on the purity test.”

“And has he remained ‘pure’?”

A quick shake of his head is the only response.

I snort. “That’s awfully hypocritical.”

A beat passes, then another.

Zevayr opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. Once, twice, as if he’s determined to cage whatever words are trying to escape. Then—finally—he asks, “Are you … worried about passing the purity test?”

Tides, if my cheeks keep heating like this, there won’t be any warmth left for the rest of me. I worry my lower lip between my teeth—it’s a deeply intimate question, but I suppose so was mine.

I flick my gaze to his, but he’s still staring at the fire. I can’t decipher the emotion swirling behind his molten gray eyes.

“No,” I finally say. “The purity test will be uncomfortable, to say the least. I’d rather slit my wrists than let some stranger prod around, um, me. But I’m not worried about passing. It’s just … I don’t relish the idea of marrying a man who holds me to a different standard. I’d want him to see me as his equal.”

Zevayr’s head turns sharply, and my breath stutters at the intensity thrumming behind his eyes, a maddening swirl of emotions I can’t name.

Desire? Warmth?

And maybe … hope?

Almost like he—

I can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much.

I bolt to my feet, pressing a hand over my heart, as if that might soothe its incessant pounding.

“I—I’m still going to marry your brother, of course. Archaic traditions or not.”

“Of course.” His voice is stiff.

“Maybe I can change his worldview with my ferocious temper.”

My lips curve into a weak smile. Zevayr’s gaze drops to my mouth. The heat in his eyes chases away the chill in my bones, leaving behind a searing heat.

And it’ll burn me if I’m not careful.

“No more pretend first watches for me,” I stumble over my words. “I’m going to sleep.” Before he can answer, I pivot on my heel, practically running to the blanket, and nestle myself beneath his cloak.

When he finally joins me, I pretend to sleep.

He pretends he doesn’t notice.





CHAPTER TWELVE




TIME BLURS AS WE travel, each day flowing seamlessly into the next. Slowly, the landscape changes, daily subtle shifts that culminate in an entirely new world.

It starts with the snow. It no longer blankets the ground in endless, blinding sheets, but lingers in scattered patches beneath shady clusters of shrubs and prickly groundcover.

It’s how I know we’re finally out of Tundrayn. Technically, we’re in Arbinj, though there’s a large Rebellion presence here. The air grows warmer, enough for thin fog to cling to the earth in ghostly tendrils, rising between the slick stones.

Zevayr is sharpening his daggers when I return to our campsite after relieving myself. I sit beside him, and he wordlessly hands me breakfast—leftover rabbit meat.

“Look what I found.” My voice brims with excitement as I press a handful of bright red berries into his palm. “Are they safe to eat?”