Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
There are other ways of hurting a woman, I think to myself. And what is for him a transaction will be, for me, a piece of myself.
But do I really want to die untouched?
As I take a deep breath, I’m aware that there are two totally different negotiations taking place, and he’s only aware of the surface one. He thinks the terms are about sex, whereas I’m bartering with a bit of my soul.
“All right,” I tell him roughly. “If you take me to the Badlands, I’ll … give you what you want. But only when I say.”
His satisfied chuckle is deep in his chest, and very masculine. “Of course. I’m a mercenary, not a savage, you know.”
“Is there a difference?”
“I’ll prove it right now if you want. But there’s something to be said for discretion, don’t you think?”
My heart pounds, and I know I have to refocus. “We’ll see about that—”
As I go to take off once again, he recaptures my hand. “We have to seal the deal. It’s not official yet.”
Instead of shaking on it, however, he turns my palm over, and bends down farther, ignoring the danger we’re in. I stand transfixed as he massages the inside of my wrist with his thumb—and then presses his lips to my lifeline.
I have to close my eyes as he straightens. For the first time in my life, I can’t meet a man’s stare for a reason other than I don’t want to know his death: If I looked into this mercenary’s eyes right now, I’d burst into flames.
“Come on,” I say roughly. “I lead the way.”
I start running, following the alley farther down. The mercenary stays right behind me, his movements so silent I don’t hear him in my wake, even with all his weapons. When we get to the intersection of another alley, I pull up short and check for stragglers.
“To the right,” I say softly. “We go to the right—”
“I thought we were leaving the village.” He points over my shoulder. “The gate is back there, and now is a good time for me to overpower those two guards. They’re going to be distracted by the noise.”
I frown over my shoulder, focusing on that hard jaw. “You can’t kill them. They’re just farmers.”
“Oh, I assure you I very much can—”
“No!” I grab his arm and then retract my hand. “You won’t hurt them. I hired you and I’m in charge.”
Against the backdrop of the distant yelling, the mercenary scrums down so our heads are on the same level, and I have to look at his boots to make sure he doesn’t see inside my hood.
“They’ll kill you. Each and every one of them, including the two that are between you and what’s outside that village wall. You can be in charge all you like, but some decisions are mine and mine alone.”
Abruptly, I’m furious at him, and not just because he’s making a kind of sense that my conscience can’t live with. I’m angry because I can’t be mad at the Fulcrum. Or those cruel, dead boys. Or those families who are suffering and scared, but also prepared to condemn me to a brutal, public slaughter, even though I saved their bairns, and eased their pains—and had nothing to do with what happened in all that sand.
And fates, I have just become this mercenary’s whore.
I lift my chin. “We go to the right.”
That chuckle comes back, and he inclines his head like he’s humoring me. “Lead on. For the moment.”
I am more than happy to get running again. It’s a better outlet than so many others.
The cobbler’s former storefront is around the next corner, and before we make that turn, I have to force myself to stop to make sure no one is ahead. In our pause, I’m breathing hard. The mercenary looks like he’s been out for a stroll.
I feel like kicking him in the shins.
“Stay here,” I tell him.
“Why.”
“Because I said so.” Stepping out into the lane, I glare at him from under my hood. “I’ll be right back.”
Tears gather in my eyes as I tenderfoot it to Mare’s door. I don’t know how I’ll say goodbye to her—
The entry is ajar.
I glance around. Push the rickety panel open a little farther. “Mare?”
There’s a smell that registers, but my brain refuses to label it.
“Mare.”
Ordinarily, I never wait for a response from her when I come here with my herbs. I wait now, even though I am hunted. On the threshold, my heart thunders—and I know what’s happened, even before I see it—
The mercenary elbows me aside and goes in first.
His black boots leave footprints in the blood as he enters.
Twelve
The Start of the Scarring.
A scream rips from my throat and I claw him out of the way. A bloody trail marks the way to the bed, and my dear friend’s withered body is lying on her pallet, on top of the blankets I brought to her. Her chest is cut open and the cavity inside her ribs is empty, and I fixate on the smell of burning meat that crowds into my nose.