White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(8)

“Camp?” I ask hesitantly.

He tosses back his wild mane of hair, pinning me with a derisive look. “I realize you’ve never slept a night beneath the plain sky, my lady. Don’t worry, you won’t wither without a feather mattress and bed warmer.”

I almost laugh. So this is what he thinks of me: that I’m a pampered aristocrat. While it’s true that I’ve never slept without a roof overhead, for the last twelve years, that roof has been leaky and bee-infested.

As for a feather mattress? More like a flour sack stuffed with moldering straw. But there’s no point in disabusing him of his beliefs about me; he can think whatever he likes.

They can have my body, I repeat in my head. My mind is my own.

That incantation has been my guiding principle to get me through my imprisonment in the convent. How fortuitous that it fits with my current reality, too. Previously, it was malicious Sisters beating me daily; now, riding naked is just another form of controlling my body.

At least this way doesn’t leave bruises. Should I thank my future husband?

“There is a chance the bridge will be closed at Middleford,” Wolf continues as we turn the corner at a bakery. Stacked crates block its window, though I glimpse the bakers inside moving around through the cracks. “If that happens, we’ll go west instead, toward Marblenz.”

A black cat noses its way past one of the crates and blinks at me lazily. I tell it about the milk bottles I spotted earlier, encouraging it to knock one over for a drink.

“I’ll purchase food and supplies in the towns we pass through,” Wolf states evenly, “If you must stop to rest, tell me at once. Lord Rian won’t wish you to arrive fatigued.”

“How very considerate,” I mutter.

A door slams from somewhere nearby, making me jump. Myst draws to a stop, and Wolf halts, too, resting a hand on her mane.

She flinches, not liking his touch.

A man steps out of the Lucky Love Tavern and stands by the side of the road. He faces us square on, chin raised defiantly, a mean gleam in his eyes. He pointedly takes his time cocking his head this way and that, getting as much of an eyeful of my naked body as possible.

Annoyance snaps in my chest as I comb my hair into place, trying to hide what he wants to see.

“That’s Thom Wallsor,” I mumble under my breath to Wolf. “The second largest landowner in Bremcote after my father.”

Wolf’s presence changes immediately, crackling with coiled aggression. His hands curl into fists at his side, but he does nothing to stop the man from looking.

“Aren’t you going to protect my modesty?” I prompt cynically.

“No.”

His direct answer still surprises me. “No?”

“I’m tasked with getting you safely into Lord Rian’s hands. He said nothing about your modesty and, in fact, if he worried after it, I doubt he’d command you to ride naked. Every man from here to Duren can fuck you with his eyes for as much as I care.”

I didn’t think much could shock me after what I’ve endured at the convent, but my face goes slack at his crudeness.

Hurt him? Myst asks hopefully.

It’s a nice mental picture to imagine Wolf trampled under her hooves, but I swallow my ire and think, Not yet.

A middle-aged woman sticks her head out of the tavern’s upstairs window, calling down, “Thom Wallsor, turn ‘round your meaty arse and get back inside! We aren’t to look at Lady Sabine. Don’t you go bein’ the one rotten peach in the whole town!”

Thom Wallsor folds his arms petulantly.

“Lord Rian stole that girl from me,” he shouts loud enough for the whole street to hear. “Lord Charlin promised to give her to me as a bride. The least I am owed is a long look at what should have been mine to take on my wedding night!”

Wolf jerks around to face me. “Is there truth to his claim?”

“No.” I sear Thom with a scorching look. I knew him vaguely as a child—he was a miserable teenage lout then, and I’ve heard nothing but ill about him since. “My father might have strung him along to wring coin or favor from him, but he would never have married me to a commoner. His aspirations were always as big as his thirst.”

It’s all Wolf needs to hear. He drops his rucksack on the ground and then eats up the distance between Thom and us. The sneer instantly melts off Thom’s face to see a beast of a man closing in on him.

Wolf’s fist smashes into Thom’s face before his sneer fully fades.

Blood spurts from the wound like a mouse crushed beneath a wagon wheel. Thom screams. I don’t think the possibility of violence entered his head when he devised this little stunt. But he didn’t know about Wolf Bowborn.

Thom cups his shattered nose as he doubles over, but Wolf takes no pity on him. He pulls back for another swing. His fist slams into the side of Thom’s head, knocking him to the ground. Thom curls in a ball. Plaintive little squeals come from his throat. Wolf drops to a knee in the dirt, bringing his fist down on Thom’s shoulder.

He hits him again, again, again, until my stomach feels hollowed out.

Beneath me, Myst prances, wanting to bolt. There isn’t much that spooks my brave mare, but something about Wolf has her as on edge as if we were facing down his namesake.

The woman in the tavern’s upstairs window blanches and runs inside for help. Mud streaks both men now, but Wolf doesn’t seem to care as he beats the man bloody.