I lift pillows and flip through the stack of books piled on a side table. I peer at oil lamps and open some of the horseman’s chests, disappointed when I end up staring down at weapons and more weapons.

Honestly, War’s innermost life is not that intriguing. I was hoping to find that he secretly likes to cross dress or collects Russian nesting dolls or some other weird shit like that.

Instead, I find old maps with cities crossed out. I swallow when I see them.

I throw open the last of his chests, and I exhale when I see what’s inside.

His blood red armor sits at the bottom of it.

His sword, I notice, is absent.

I pull out a vambrace, turning the arm guard over in my hand. The leather is once again in pristine condition, despite the fact that I swear there were bloodstains on it yesterday. I guess at the end of the day, God washes away all sins.

Why isn’t War wearing his gear?

The answer comes a second too late.

“It’s light, isn’t it?”

I jolt at the sound of War’s voice. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s in the doorway of his tent, staring at me, his expression inscrutable.

God, how guilty I look, crouched in front of his chest, holding a piece of his armor.

“You don’t expect that from armor,” he says, heading towards me. “My brothers all wear metal armor, but on the battlefield metal is heavy and cumbersome.”

I set the arm guard back inside the chest and close it. Then I turn to face War. He wears a black shirt, the hilt of his sword peeking out from over his shoulder.

“What about that?” I ask, my chin jutting to his weapon. “Isn’t that … cumbersome?”

“Quite. But I’m fond of it.”

Behind him, the tent flaps rustle open, and a soldier walks in, carrying a tray of food and coffee. He sets the items down on the table, then leaves.

Once we’re alone again, War walks over to the table and pulls out a chair for me.

“Who taught you to offer a woman a seat?” I ask, following him over. I sit down, my eyes on the table setting.

He hasn’t released the back of my chair, and he leans in to whisper in my ear, “The same people who taught you how to poke through people’s things.”

War straightens, and as he does so, I catch sight of a familiar hilt strapped to his arm holster.

“My dagger,” I say as recognition sparks. It was one of the weapons I fought with in Jerusalem. “You kept it.” I’d been sure it was long gone. Seeing it sparks some old emotion.

Without thinking, I reach for it, only to have War catch my wrist.

I give him an incredulous look. “It’s mine.”

“Consider it a trade—you get my dagger, I get yours.”

“That’s not a trade,” I complain, standing. “You kept my weapon without telling me and simply gave me yours. I want mine back.”

My dagger is duller than War’s and the balance is off. I still want it back.

“No.” Just by the tone of his voice I can tell it’s non-negotiable. Ugh.

I glower at him.

“Why do you even want my dagger?” I ask.

There are dozens of weapons in this room alone. There are thousands more throughout camp, and with every city we raid, there are countless more for War to acquire. My humble blade is no match for those.

“I’m … fond of it.”

Just like he’s fond of his sword.

He gestures to the chair again. “Sit down.”

I do so, eyeing the assortment of food and the thick, steaming coffee alongside it.

Rather than taking his own seat, War kneels, pressing his hands to my wounds. By now I’ve gotten used to this routine. It’s still startlingly intimate to have him this close and to feel his flesh pressed to mine, but I’ve come to expect it—even anticipate it.

I’m not right in the head.

“Are you just healing me because you want to fuck me?”

Holy mother of God. Did those words really come out of my mouth?

What is wrong with you, Miriam?

The horseman’s head snaps up to me. He stares for several seconds, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “I healed you for my own reasons. Fucking you is another matter altogether.”

War finishes his work and sits down in the seat next to mine.

And now I’ve got to deal with the twelve tons of sexual tension I’ve introduced into the room.

To distract myself, I force out the words I’ve been meaning to say to him.

“I’m going back.”

War’s eyes move casually to me, but I sense deep tension at my words. “Back where?” His mouth actually lifts a little, like going back in any sense of the phrase is ridiculous and impossible.

“Back to my tent.”

Now War straightens in his seat. He wears a terrible, frightening face, one that causes men to quake before he’s laid a hand on them.

“Why?” It’s a demand more than a question.

“We’re not lovers.”

The deep look the warlord gives me has my core heating.

That will change, his eyes say.

“Not to mention that you’re destroying the entire world,” I say. “It was kind of you to heal me—”

“Kind,” he repeats, like he’s never heard anything so distasteful in his life.

“—but I’m better now, and I want my tent back.”

Had I really ever thought the warlord’s eyes were sad? There’s only violence in them. Soul-devouring, terrible violence.

He leans forward, and that single action has me wanting to recoil.

“What if I told you no?” he says, his voice low. “What if I told you that you couldn’t leave?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you going to try to stop me when you’ve worked so hard to give me space?”

“Make no mistake, Miriam,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “I can do whatever I please. I plucked you from your first home. I can pluck you from your second one too.”

“Don’t ruin this,” I say softly.

His face flickers, and for a moment I think he’s remembering how I told him I hated him.

“And if I give you your own tent again, who’s to say that you won’t be attacked the moment you’re alone?”

“You let me ride into battle,” I say. “There’s a part of you that clearly trusts your god to protect me.”

“He’s your god too.”

Um, agree to disagree.

“If you force me to stay here,” I say, “you’re no better than those men who attacked me.”

Alright, so that’s a bit of a stretch.

It seems to make logical sense to War, however.

His jaw clenches and he looks away, his nostrils flaring.

“Fine,” he grits out after a moment, his eyes still full of violence. “You can have your tent back—for a time.”

War stands and leans in. “But I will decide when time’s up, and none of your pretty human arguments will change that.”

War is a man of his word. He does indeed give me back my tent later that very day … he just happens to move it right next to his own.

“What is this bullshit?” I demand, staring at the two of our tents sitting side by side. Mine looks laughably tiny next to his.