Between Tides Thunder(25)

But I don’t. I need to do a better job of keeping my distance.

We’ll reach Arbinj soon. Where I’ll marry his brother.

Zevayr and I have spent so much time alone, and my feelings are becoming muddled. I respect him, consider him a friend now, even. I’m definitely attracted to him. But I can’t let myself feel more than that.

And it’s best if he doesn’t, either.

Zevayr clears his throat, jolting me from my thoughts. “It’s safer to double back and walk around.”

He doesn’t look at me.

We head back the way we came, but unfortunately, remaining undetected is not in our fate.

Zevayr freezes, shoulders tight, and I nearly collide with his back. The scent of musk and something feral hits me a breath too late.

A low rustle sounds through the trees.

Then we see it.

A massive black bear. And it’s blocking the path ahead.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN




IT’S GIGANTIC.

Monstrous.

The bear stands on its hind legs, towering over Zevayr, and looses a menacing growl. Before I can react, Zevayr shoves me behind him, stretching himself to his full height, sword unsheathed and ready.

A heartbeat, then another.

The bear doesn’t move. Neither does Zevayr.

And then the worst possible thing happens.

Zevayr turns his head seconds before there’s a rustling in the underbrush, and then, a boy emerges, perhaps twelve or thirteen. Clutched in his hands is a large sword that eclipses him.

“Leave them alone!” he shouts at the bear.

“Zevayr,” I urge, but he’s already darting toward the boy.

He’s too late.

The bear swipes through the air, his claws tearing into the boy’s abdomen.

My feet move before I can register it.

Zevayr plunges his sword into the distracted bear’s side and yanks downward, ducking to avoid its weak retaliatory swipe.

But my focus is on the boy. His shirt is shredded, skin along with it—and the gashes are deep. Kneeling, I lift his head into my lap. His skin is already clammy, eyes glassy.

Tides help me.

Without a second thought, I summon my power when—

“Georg! Oh, Georg!”

The glow dies from my hands as a frantic woman bolts into the clearing, her long skirt swishing through fallen leaves. In a blink, she’s kneeling beside me, clutching the boy’s hand, tears streaming down her lined face. “I told you not to wander off alone,” she cries, cheeks gleaming with tears.

A loud thud. I follow the sound—the bear lies dead. Zevayr is unharmed. I want to sag with relief, but I can’t, not when there’s a boy dying in my lap.

“Help me bring him back to my cottage,” the woman pleads. The utter anguish in her voice pierces my heart.

“Wait,” I say, placing a hand on her arm before she can rise. “He’ll lose too much blood.”

“Mayah.” Zevayr’s voice is a warning.

But the boy’s skin is too pale, his breathing too shallow.

It’s a warning I don’t heed.

I call to my power again, until my hands glow with gentle white light. The woman gasps, but my focus is reserved only for my patient. My hands pass over his wounds carefully. One of the bear’s claws nicked his stomach. Focusing, I mend the tissue and soothe the inflammation. Next, I heal the deep gashes until his skin is seamless once more. My power flows through his body, sensing for any other internal damage—there’s a strained muscle in his lower back, and some minor scrapes and cuts.

I open my eyes, raising them to find Zevayr.

I expect fury.

What I find is worse—something soft and vulnerable flickering in his gaze.

Turning to the woman, I softly say, “He’ll sleep for a while. But your Georg will be just fine.” Her eyes are wide, glued to her son’s healed belly. Slowly, she looks at me. Really looks at me. Her gaze lingers on my eyes.

“Thank you,” she breathes. Then she tugs me into a tight embrace, her tears warm against my neck.


Zevayr carries Georg back to the cottage and settles him into a bed far too large for his small frame. I blot the sweat from his brow, then draw the covers up to his chest. In the doorway, his mother, Georgaina, hovers helplessly, wringing her hands.

Zevayr’s eyes burn into my back, but I’m too nervous to face him, afraid of what I’ll find.

Instead, I place a hand on Georgaina’s shoulder and give her a warm smile. The older woman wipes a tear from her cheek and insists we stay for a meal. I shoot Zevayr a questioning glance, and he nods. His hand scorches through the fabric of my tunic, searing into my lower back as we follow Georgaina to her modest kitchen. His steady touch anchors me in a way that it shouldn’t.

She feeds us delicious roasted hen and salty potatoes. It’s my first time eating hen—it’s too cold in Tundrayn for the small birds to survive. And after weeks of subsisting on unseasoned rabbit, I think it might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. I try to take small bites, but I finish my portion in minutes. Georgaina notices and piles more hen onto my empty plate. Zevayr hides a smile behind his hand.

“We don’t have much,” Georgaina says by way of apology. “But you’re welcome to anything you like.”