Page 78 of Ravenrose

I force a swallow. My throat burns. Ash and embers, it’s like someone lit a torch and shoved it down there, tossing in a few jagged bits of glass for the hell of it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t⁠—

Too late.

My eyes lock on the water pouch, homing in on the sound of the water sloshing inside, the slow tilt of Ayer’s head, the way his throat works as he swallows the liquid down.

My throat is a raging inferno, and I force my gaze away.

But not before his eyes lift to meet mine—catching me staring.

My cheeks heat when I spy that little smirk of his out of the corner of my eye while I stare furiously out into the dark forest.

“Godsdamnit,” I mutter under my breath when my eyes act on their own volition again, seeking out the water pouch that contains the life-sustaining liquid I so desperately need.

Ayer shoots me a little wink.

Shadows-spawned son of a⁠—

He rises, and my heart jumps, quickening as he moves toward me, still wearing that same infuriating smirk on his stupid face.

“Thirsty?” he asks, giving the pouch in his hand a light shake.

The sound of the water sloshing inside nearly sends me crawling toward him on my hands and knees. Every muscle in my body goes stiff as I lock that the fuck down. Gods, do I want to hit him.

Hard.

Despite his amusement, there’s something bitter in the way he’s looking down at me. He’s still pissed about the baby. Without a logical explanation for her recovery, he still thinks I lied. Thinks I intentionally gave that mother false hope to make ripping the rug out from under her all the more painful. A cruel fae trick I played for my own twisted amusement.

The rest of the camp is quiet; the men getting in a few more hours of sleep before what’s sure to be another long day of hard travel.

We just might be journeying to the ends of the continent at this rate. Days and days of arduous travel, with no end in sight. I’m not sure I fear the end of our journey anymore, seeing as how it will never come.

Another scout sits on the opposite side of the camp, his eyes alert and scanning the surrounding trees meticulously. Ayer has taken additional precautions following the tree monster attack, such as lighting additional fires, each positioned along the outskirts of the camp.

There’s always someone up to watch me, a rotation between Ayer, Wyatt, or Hayes. But now, there’s also always someone else watching the woods.

Ayer’s heavy gaze reveals a deep hatred burning in his dark eyes. If I thought he hated me before…

“What’s your name?” he asks, a stony expression falling over his face as he replaces the cork in the pouch and folds his arms staunchly across his chest.

In my delirium from lack of sleep or lack of water, I almost let loose a laugh.

Of course. It’s a game.

Captain Crankypants has certainly stopped playing nice, that’s for sure.

“It’s a simple question.” Ayer shrugs casually when I don’t answer him. Not that anything he does could ever be described as casual. No, everything he does—every movement, every order—is deeply intentional. He’s not to be underestimated. He watches me like a wolf stalks a deer, eager to draw out the misery, circling mercilessly while closing in. Not above playing with its food.

I keep my gaze on the forest, fixing it on one regal oak tree. Likely thousands of years old, its reach extends hundreds of feet into the⁠—

The twisting sound of Ayer removing the cork from the water pouch has my attention instantly. My neck nearly snaps with how fast my eyes find the water satchel again.

He takes another drink.

I watch him. I hate that I watch him.

The ever-present burning in my throat intensifies. So thirsty. So, so thirsty.