Page 32 of The Withering Wood

The prince lay behind her, both curling on their sides sometime in the night. True, she had fallen asleep with all layers on her, not giving him much option other than to lie near her.

Push him. Threaten him. Move away. He didn’t ask permission to sleep so close.

Despite the paranoid voice in her mind, her body didn’t move. She didn’t want to. No time in her life had anything besides a wall provided safety at her back. Even with all her indulgences with other templars before and during the war, they were never anything more than carnal relief. Never had they led to hot breath rustling against her hair, raising goosebumps on her neck. Never had it led to the steady rise and fall of breathing, chest brushing against her back in the rhythm. Never had it led to a strong hand blessed with a gentle touch resting on her hip.

She fidgeted, uncomfortable with how contented she felt having him next to her. At the desire blooming through her body. At how easy it would be to guide his hands between her legs and let his fingers please her.

The prince’s breathing changed, the deep rumble growing shallow with waking. Cerise remained still, focusing on keeping her own breaths steady, not wanting the prince to think she was awake. Yet when he moved, her breath hitched, unsure what he’d do if he did. If he’d startle away from her, embarrassed. If he’d bring his lips to her neck, press tender kisses to her skin. If he’d slip his firm fingers under her clothes and explore every bit of wanting flesh.

As he inhaled and exhaled, not moving or saying a word, she wondered what was going through that mysterious mind. She knew she should move away from this moment, create space between them, since no matter what happened between them, it’d end in separation. One or both would leave in disappointment and heartache. But when she thought of breaking away, a pit of absence and yearning yawned in her chest. She imagined Oberon’s expression shuttering closed with resigned respect and rejection. Strange, how that image twisted her with more regret than her own desires remaining unfulfilled.

An eternity seemed to pass in those precious seconds, neither moving nor speaking. Perhaps he was treasuring the moment just as she was, storing it in his memory for lonelier days.

He removed his hand from her hip and rolled away. The sudden absence of his body behind Cerise left a cool, empty space at her back. After a few moments he leaned up, and she listened to him shuffle around the tent, gently removing clothes from the layers on her and strapping them over his body before leaving.

Cerise flipped to her back, hating the feel of nothingness behind her. Not wanting him to think she’d be awake before him, had let him remain touching her, she stayed in the tent while he tromped through the snow outside. Once satisfied enough time had passed and he’d think she’d just woken, she sat up, muscles stiff from sleeping so deep she’d barely moved. She rolled out the crick in her neck, raised her arms and stretched out her legs, a brief surge of tearing pain ripping through her knee. Yet it faded fast, and when she pulled back the layers, she saw a finely wrapped bandage around her leg. Peeling back the fabric, a sticky, pale purple paste clung to her skin. She swiped a finger through it and sniffed. Floral and sweet. He must’ve ground the petals of Zyrdriel’s Mercy and mixed it with the remaining honey, creating an ointment.

Numbness tingled through her skin as she rubbed her fingers together, the medicine seeping into her pores. A tenderness she’d never felt for anyone except her sister clutched her chest. Yet this was different. Her affection for Eirwen was at once soft yet hard with protectiveness. This…this was a softness she wanted to have Oberon wrap his arms around.

Absolute foolishness.

He’d leave for Tyrnoraen at the end of this journey, and she’d return to her cabin. If they had any intimacy, it’d be nothing more than a satisfaction of the flesh. She found it unlikely that the prince had no romantic interests in the capital. Those more graceful and beautiful. Scarless and lithe. Ridiculous for her to think she’d be anything more than a fleeting distraction for him while they traversed the cold toward their potential death.

Banishing the brief softness that seized her breast with a harsh exhale, she clothed herself and grabbed Beloved, bracing herself for the return to the nightmare of a world outside. She needed to focus on their survival, on killing Vraethik. This cursed world left no space for wandering hearts or fantasizing minds, unless one wanted to end up just as fractured as Azkanix’s freezing, bursting bones.

Stepping out of the tent, she blinked against the harsh light. The blizzard wiped away all haze and dust, leaving pure, crisp air sharp with cold. The cloudless, pale lilac sky shone bright with filtered sunlight that rebounded off the snow, creating a blinding white landscape.

Broken gray stone rose from the ground around her, ice clinging to the spaces between bricks, dusty snow piled on top of the shattered walls. Pillars and wall fragments littered the space around her, meeting at odd angles, hinting at buildings that no longer stood.

The prince sat in a corner where two walls met, a crumbling piece of ceiling hanging overhead and providing sparse shelter. A small fire burned in front of him, and he stared distantly at the flames while twisting a stick with thin, stringy slabs of meat twined around it.

His gaze flicked to her as she approached, an unsure grin twitching his face. Handing her a steaming mug, he said, “Morning. How are you feeling?”

“Better than yesterday.” Their fingers brushed as she clasped the cup, heat seeping into her hands despite the stinging chill around her. “What is this?”

“Tea,” he answered. At a flick of her brow he added, “Not of Zyrdriel’s Mercy. Some mint your sister gave us.”

She sniffed it, finding no trace of the drug. Not that he’d lie to her, but she wanted a clear head for what lay before them. No more fantasizing about the prince’s hands roaming over her, which was surely a dream formed from her intoxication.

Cerise sat beside him, with the adjacent wall at her back. Stretching her leg in front of the flames, letting the heat soothe the stiffness within, she took a long sip of the searing liquid and allowed it to burn through her body.

The prince sliced the pathetic meat and placed a few pieces on a stone between them.

“So, you can hunt as well,” Cerise said, chewing the dry, charred food.

“I can, yes, though I didn’t this time. This poor rabbit was already dead when I found it yesterday. Frozen to death, by the looks of it.”

“Yesterday?”

“The storm abated a few hours after you fell asleep. Some daylight remained, so I explored our surroundings.”

“Ah,” she responded, glancing down. She ran a hand through her hair and cleared her throat. “About that. Yesterday, I mean. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure. Well, not that you weren’t well. But to help you. I was glad to do so.”

Cerise glanced at the prince through the corner of her eye, a subtle pink rising to his cheeks.

She mulched a few pieces of the gamey meat in her mouth, gulping the cooling tea to help wash it down. “What is this place?”