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What she would not do was see Tristan again after tomorrow. A thought she refused to dwell on since there was nothing she could do to change that.

She’d just folded the borrowed garments as neatly as possible into a pile, placing the traveling gown on top, when the sound of twigs cracking turned her attention to where she’d left Tristan.

He appeared from nowhere, sword in hand.

His eyes widened—she was buck naked—and then he was gone.

What the hell was that?

Hannah could hear him running in the opposite direction, toward the road. She got dressed as quickly as humanly possible and gathered up her belongings. Now what? Go back to their camp or follow him?

The distant sound of a man’s scream made the decision for her. Hannah ran toward their shelter as fast as her legs would carry her. She tossed the bag with her things out of the way and threw the pile of clothes on top. The cave was more like an overhang, but Hannah slid as far back as she could. Heart hammering against her chest, she watched little bits of ash float above the fire and dance away. She couldn’t hear a thing, and for the first time since yesterday, she thought of what would happen to her without Tristan. She’d felt perfectly safe, even when he’d told her how dangerous it was here, but only because of him. The man was a certifiable knight, a warrior if she’d ever seen one.

And yet he was not infallible . . . what if something happened to him? What if he was already dead?

Just like he had earlier, Tristan appeared out of nowhere.

She jumped up from her spot and ran to him. “You’re alive!”

Hannah nearly threw her arms around him but came to her senses just in time.

Tristan looked her up and down, his gaze resting on her legs, which were getting cold despite the fact that it was July. She pulled her hoodie tighter to fend off the sudden chill.

“You’re dressed.”

When she met his eyes, the pupils dilated with desire, Hannah’s pulse raced. He wanted her, and she very much wanted him. She looked away, down to the sword he carried in his hand, and gasped.

“There’s blood all over that.”

While he stood there appraising her as calm as could be, his massive sword—a broadsword, according to what one of the tour guides had told them—dripped blood as he held it next to him. This was not the shiny sword that might be displayed at a museum. It was worn, well-used, and freaking bloody.

The same panic that had made her shed every stitch of clothing that time she’d cut her foot took over. She reached out and turned him, inspecting everywhere. No blood. He played along and allowed her to turn him back around.

“You’re not hurt.”

“Nay,” he said, “but I do need to clean this.”

“What happened?

His lips pursed just slightly and his eyes . . . he could hypnotize someone with that look.

“I heard a noise and came to check on you—”

“I know that,” she said, impatient to learn the rest of it. “And then?”

“And then I encountered the same two men who had come through earlier. Whether they’d planned all along to come back or—”

“The blood, Tristan?” How could he stand there talking to her so calmly when something catastrophic had clearly happened?

“And then one of them attacked me. Which leads me to believe—”

“Tristan! You’re sure you’re okay?”

The look he gave her in response to that question turned her on more than anything else ever had in her entire lifetime. It was so assured, so damn confident—as if he were incapable of losing a fight, and the mere suggestion of it was so insulting that he appeared unable, or unwilling, to answer.

“Is he okay?” she asked instead, dreading the answer.

“Does it matter?”