She pulls the white canvas aside and steps into the gloomy interior where a large table is covered with maps, scrolls are stacked into high piles on the single chair. Rachel walks inside, the thick carpet muting her footsteps. On one side of the tent is a curtained-off area, large enough to hide a bed. Across from the gauzy fabric, a metal tub—lined with swaths of cotton—sits on a brazier, in order to heat the water within.
Keeping her breathing steady, Rachel reaches up to push the curtain out of the way, but freezes as a blade cuts through the fabric, stopping short before it can embed itself in her throat.
She swallows hard, the tip of the dagger tickling her skin in the process.
“Give me one good reason not to kill you right here and now.” Orion’s voice is calm, too calm.
The tip of the dagger presses harder into her skin by the unmistakable silhouette behind the curtain.
Rachel says the first thing that pops into her head. “Mrs. Crenshaw will be über-pissed.”
Whether it’s a good reason not to be killed, though, is unclear.
The curtain slides out of the way. Fabric flutters to the floor as the dagger cuts the curtain in two. With the dagger still pointing at her throat, the dark-haired Fae prince studies her with his galaxy eyes, forming a Fae light in his free hand. It floats into the air, joining Ziggy against the tent’s ceiling.
Orion’s brow furrows as the silence between them stretches on.
“Miss me, Faerie Boy?” Rachel raises her finger and pushes the blade away from her throat, ignoring the clean slice against her fingertip. She’d rather lose a finger than have a severed artery.
Orion moves the dagger back to its original position, the suspicion in his glare intensifying.
“Well, this is awkward,” she says.
Rachel purses her lips together, her gaze moving to his left forearm, where the tattoo curls all the way up his arm, around his biceps, and moves over his shoulder. The black lines coil and twist around his bare chest, ending on his right waist. The tattoo is one thing—the faded scars marring his skin are a whole other matter.
“How did you even get in here?” Orion asks.
“I walked most of the way, but I procured a horse from one of your men yesterday, after he tried to sexually assault me.” Rachel senses something off about Orion. “I called the horse Journey. Pretty thing, a docile mare, has loads of personality.”
“But how did you get into the camp?” Orion asks, dropping the dagger from her neck.
Rachel shrugs. “My womanly wiles, of course.”
Orion rolls his eyes.
Rachel slips the backpack’s straps off her shoulders and places it on the floor. She moves to a round table situated next to his bed, and picks up the brass pitcher standing on a dented tray. Rachel fills the matching goblet with what she hopes is just red wine.
“What’s the legal drinking age around here?”
“We don’t have liquor restriction laws in Amaris.” Orion takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Good to know.” Rachel lifts the goblet to her lips and takes a swig of the heavily spiced wine. Cinnamon and citrus notes play on her tongue.
“What are you doing here, Clarré?”
“I’ve come to take you home.” She wanders toward the large table, studying the foreign maps lining the surface. A red stag marker sits in an outlined area surrounded by mountains. She guesses that’s where they are. The golden crown, however, is positioned precariously close to where the camp is located. There are other red and gold markers, too, signifying troops across various territories over Orthega. “And just in the nick of time, it seems.”
Orion materializes on the opposite side of the table, and uses his forearm to topple the red and white markers off the map. His expression is inscrutable. Orion regards her with a stony gaze, yet a smile plays in the corners of his mouth.
He presses his hands on the table and leans forward. “Didn’t I tell you not to follow me?” Orion masks his smile with a snarl. “Nova has eyes everywhere, even in this camp, and he will stop at nothing to get his hands on you if it means he has a chance to hurt me.”
Rachel raises her free hand to her heart, tilts her head. “Aw, I’m touched. To think, a poorly planned war campaign can be swayed in one brother’s favor by little old me.”
Bristling, Orion pushes away from the table. “Poorly planned? I’ll have you know I’ve been doing this for centuries.”
“Yeah, well, judging by your security, you’ve lost your touch. It’s amazing Nova hasn’t sent assassins yet.” She turns on her heels and makes her way back to the bed, sipping on the wine as she goes.
“Who says he hasn’t?”
Rachel snorts and glances over her shoulder. “I say.”
Eleven
Sidetracked
Bells toll as the alarm is raised. Deep voices shout across the camp for men to ready themselves against an attack, to answer the call if they are able.
A heartbeat later, a breathless, red-faced soldier with barely a single whisker on his lip rushes into Orion’s tent. The boy comes to an abrupt halt when he sees the Fae prince standing at the table. He salutes to Orion’s back, his chest heaving from exertion.
“Sir,” he says, hand still raised.
“What is it?” Orion barks without turning around.
“The generals urgently require your assistance. Nova’s army is forcing its way North and there’s a security breach to the West.”
Orion’s voice is thick with command and laced with displeasure. “I’ll be there to in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir, but ...” The boy’s fist, firmly fixed beside his waist, trembles.
“But?” Orion turns
