Why am I thinking about his mouth?

“You can go,” I say to him. “I’ll be fine.”

War glances at me, and I see his hesitation.

“Seriously. I’m not going to die—thanks to you,” I tack on.

The horseman’s eyes deepen at that. His lips part, and I think he might respond, but instead, his gaze moves over my face, pausing here and there, his eyes getting more and more violent.

I must look like royal shit for his mood to darken at the sight of me.

“They will be fine without me,” he states.

“I’ve lived on my own for seven years,” I insist, pulling the fabric of my shirt tight over my chest. “I’ll be fine while you’re gone.” I could use a little privacy.

He stares at me for several long seconds. Then reluctantly, he stands, striding over to a chest where a holstered dagger rests. My eyes watch the way his massive body swaggers with each step of his.

Stop it, Miriam.

War picks up the dagger and comes back to me. Kneeling down, he places the weapon on my lap. “Anyone but me enters this tent,” he says, nodding to the tent flaps, “you gut them.”

Said like a man who knows his way around a good murder.

My hands clasp the weapon. Right now I’m not feeling too pious myself.

“Ten minutes,” he vows rising to his feet.

He heads to the tent flaps. He’s nearly left when he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at me.

“There’s food on the table.” Giving me a heavy look, he repeats, “ten minutes.”

With that, the horseman leaves, and for the first time since last night, I’m alone again.

I was nearly raped and beaten to death.

Now that War’s gone, I’m sort of just coming to terms with that.

It probably doesn’t help that I’m in a tent again, and everything hurts, and I’m alone, and I don’t know how well I’d truly be able to defend myself if someone comes at me again.

Not that I was about to tell the horseman that when he was considering staying. It’s one thing to feel vulnerable, another thing to showcase it to the world.

I probe my face a little, trying to figure out by the feel of it just how bad off I am. Along with a split lip, my nose is tender and the skin around my eyes is swollen. Never have I been more thankful that there’s no mirror in sight. I don’t really want to see the pulpy remains of my face.

I sit there for several minutes, bored and restless all at once. My skin throbs like it has a pulse, and you’d think that the pain would push out every other human urge, but it doesn’t.

My stomach knots. God, am I hungry.

I look forlornly towards the food War had mentioned. The table might as well be a million kilometers away in the state I’m in.

I grab the dagger War gave me and I force myself to stand anyway—

Holy balls, I’m going to barf. I’m going to barf all over War’s bed right now, and that holds none of the appeal it would’ve a day ago.

I force my sickness back down and stagger over to the table, pushing my dark brown hair out of my eyes. With a heave, I plop down in a chair, setting my weapon on the table.

I don’t think I should’ve gotten up. Things feel … broken. Or rather, freshly mended, like my bones are brittle twigs set to snap in the wind.

Spread out before me is a platter full of dried Turkish apricots and figs and dates, olives, cured meat—probably goat or sheep because everything these days is goat or sheep, cheese cut and arranged, and several loaves of pita bread. Next to it all is a coffee pot and a gawa cup filled with thick Turkish coffee.

The coffee has long since gone cold, the pita is a little hard, and the cheese has dried out some, but it all tastes like motherfucking heaven. Not even bruises and a split lip can stop that.

As I eat, I look around me again. It’s weird to be in here, in War’s tent, not just as some sort of visitor but as a guest—and an injured one at that.

You are not a guest, you are my wife. I can practically hear War’s response even now.

I finish shoveling food into my face, and once I’m done, I sit there, putting off the walk back to the bed.

Time to inspect the rest of my injuries.

I glance down at myself. My ripped shirt reveals mottled, discolored skin. I gingerly move the ripped fabric out of the way to get a better look. Ugh. Right now, my flesh looks more akin to that of the zombies I fought yesterday than it does healthy human skin. Everything is swollen and discolored.

I’m about to turn my attention to the lower half of my body when I hear the sound of footfalls heading my way. I pull my shirt together as best I can.

The tent flaps are thrown open, and War strides in, his expression stormy. When he sees me at the table, his step falters, his face turning fierce in a whole different manner.

“Miriam.” His voice is raw and gravely.

I find I like the sound of my name on his lips. He makes me sound … formidable. I could use a good helping of formidable today.

War walks over to the table and pulls out a chair. He sits down next to me, surveying the food then my face. Right now the horseman is all purpose and commanding energy, and I feel like squashed fruit.

War reaches for his upper arm, his wavy hair shifting with the action.

I tense when I see him grab the dagger sheathed there.

The warlord extends the weapon to me. “This is yours.”

I stare down at the weapon—his weapon. The one I took from him when I first arrived. He was carrying it in that upper arm holster then just like he is now.

“It belongs to you,” I say.

He sounds maybe a little exasperated when he says, “Take it.”

Alright—I mean, I’m not going to fight this demon over a blade.

I take the dagger from him and set it next to the other dagger he gave me.

“How do you feel?” he asks for the second time today.

“Like shit,” I answer for the second time today.

He cracks a smile at that.

I glance around us, making sure my eyes land anywhere but him. “Where do I go?”

“You don’t go,” he says. “You’re staying here.”

I begin to protest, but then the horseman takes my arm, lifting a sleeve of my shirt to study the bruising. “It looks better.” His eyes move to mine. “But you look tired.”

I am tired. And I don’t really want to fight him, not when he’s been taking care of me. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone take care of me, and I forgot how nice it is.

You don’t need anyone to take care of you, Miriam, least of all the horseman.

With that thought in mind, I begin to stand, but it hurts so damn much. I plop back down in my seat.

War pushes himself out of his chair, his eyes pained as he takes me in. I couldn’t say what exactly he’s thinking, but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s realizing that he underestimated how hurt I am.

He comes to my side, and wordlessly, he scoops me up and carries me back to his bed.

The horseman lays me down, and my shirt, which was previously behaving, now gapes open—and there are my breasts.

Could this get any fucking worse?

But the horseman doesn’t look down, and I want to cry all over again that he of all people is the one with some common decency.

Quickly I rearrange my shirt.