White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(68)

But I was wrong.

They weren’t after girls like Sabine—they were after her.

And if what Lord Charlin claims is true, then they’ll be back for her. King Rachillon will send his best spies and raiders. He might send a whole fucking army.

What am I going to do against an army? Oh, I’ll fight like hell for her. A band of raiders? That’s easy. Even a battalion? I’d give it a fair shot. But not even I can go up against an army. There’s only one person who can—someone who also has a big fucking army.

My pulse scrambles in my veins. The waterfall’s rush is too loud, driving me to distraction, and the campfire smell is too strong. I’m overloaded by senses. My godkiss is going haywire.

I slump against the back of the cave, raking my nails down my face.

“Fuck!”

I’m at war with myself. I don’t know what to do with this information, this threat. A soft horse muzzle knocks into me gently. Myst blinks steadily at me, concerned.

I take the horse’s face in my hands, staring into her bottomless eyes.

“I’m fucked, Myst.”

The last remnants of that burned-out shell of my heart crumble into ash. Because I know what I have to do now. Salensa? A fantasy. Why did I ever think I could keep Sabine safe, anyway? That I could make her happy? Hell, even before I’d learned the contents of that letter, I knew I wasn’t good enough for her. I’m a bastard from the streets. I have nothing. I don’t even own my bow—that’s Rian’s. Everything is Rian’s.

And now, she is, too. She has to be. Because I don’t have a choice.

“She’s going to hate me.” I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against Myst’s. Sabine can’t ever know what’s in that letter. No one can. Which means I’m going to have to lie to the only woman on this earth who I’ve wanted to share absolute honesty with. “I have to make her hate me.”





Chapter 23





Sabine





I wake languidly, stretching my limbs over the blanket laid out on the cave floor. The waterfall’s steady rush was a balm that had me sleeping better than I can remember. My thighs are sore from so much riding, and the puncture on my foot aches, yet I feel restored. The dream I was having still traipses through my mind. I’m on the beach, gathering seashells as festive music drifts on the air from Salensa’s nearby town center. Big shells, small ones, whole ones, broken ones. They’re all beautiful in their own way. Each time I find one, I run back to add it to the collection Basten grudgingly carries for me in his hands. He acts as grumpy as ever as he tromps through the surf, but the doting amusement in his eyes betrays his joy.

Laying back, I close my eyes and listen to the waterfall, imagining it’s the rush of the Panopis Sea. I wish I had Basten’s senses, if only for a day. When we get to the sea, I want to hear every bubble pop in the ocean surf. Feel every grain of sand scouring my feet. Taste the layers of salt in the water. What will I say to the sea creatures? What will they say to me? Dolphins and fish and octopuses—if octopuses are even real. I know only what I’ve gleaned from overheard snatches of conversations.

“Basten?” I call.

He’s not in the cave; he must have woken early to hunt breakfast. I smooth my hand over the rumpled half of the blanket that still holds a trace of his warmth. A secretive smile breaks across my face as I roll over and feel a soreness between my legs. Pressing a hand to my mouth, I giggle up at the cave’s ceiling.

By the gods, the things we did last night . . .

What I said to Basten was true—I don’t understand how anyone could consider such pleasure sinful. For twelve years, I’ve had the virtues of chastity drilled into me. In Immortal Iyre’s chapters, she’s constantly accosted by male fae who crave her body—Vale and Woudix and Popelin—and even Alyssantha, who wants to train her as a concubine. Iyre dutifully rejects their advances, preferring her needlepoint. I was taught that Iyre was the model for all young noblewomen. What a farce. Who would choose embroidery over sex?

It isn’t until I tug on my chemise, mostly dry and clean of bloodstains, that I notice Myst is gone, too. A hitch catches in my lungs. That’s odd. Basten and Myst gone? He must have ridden her into the forest, but I can’t guess why. Maybe the waterfall drowned out the sound of game, and he had to travel deeper to hunt.

No matter. My stomach growls, but I can wait. Last night’s coals are still warm, so I blow on them until the fire roars again cheerfully. I trail a hand along my neckline, toying with the lace collar. Now that I know that every sinful act in Immortal Alyssantha’s chapters is fair game for humans, I can’t stop fantasizing about Basten and I recreating every contorted position in those illustrations.

If I can bend backward that far . . .

My cheeks start to blaze. I clear my throat, smoothing out the chemise’s wrinkles to give my hands something to do. The chemise may be stiff and secondhand, but at least it covers what it needs to. It occurs to me that I never have to ride naked again. Lord Rian’s cruel game is over. We’ve won, Basten and I, by deciding not to play.

Another hour passes before I finally hear Myst’s hoofbeats. They ride into the cave, a skinned squirrel carcass dangling from Basten’s belt. So much for making Basten walk on his own two feet, I guess. I smile to myself at how the two of them—the two souls I love most—have become friends.