Chapter 67

“Terrified? Of you?” Sam scoffed with false bravado. Sander was right; she was terrified. “Aye. But I shan’t tell your secret to a soul. I swear it on my wife’s grave.” His voice was filled with promise. “Why?” She was his captor, not his friend, and he had ample motivation to betray her gender. He had a powerful bargaining chip, and a smart man would use it. He closed his eyes, his smile turning wistful. “I was born a farmer’s son, you know. I very well could have died a farmer, bound to the same plot of land I was born on. But I wielded a quarterstaff far more ably than I drove a plow, and I’ve always been far better at guiding people than herding sheep. And then I met my Elizabeth, and I found my purpose. It wasn’t on a farm.” He sighed. “Duty and capability. Perhaps you’ve found what you’re meant to be.” Sam lifted her head defiantly. “I’m meant to be a Paladin.” “Or a Uriel,” Sander said with a wink. Looking at him skeptically, Sam asked, “Do you count women among your Uriel, Sander?” “No.” Sam smirked. “I thought not.” Sander regarded her thoughtfully. “But I would consider it, for the right woman.” And there it was, the bait to lure her away. “If I were a woman, I’d keep that in mind.” She took a few steps backward, physically distancing herself from the spell he wove. “Go to sleep, Uriel. I tire of this conversation.” “As you wish.” He tucked his head back into his chest. Tristan relieved her from her watch a short while later, and she crawled into their tent beside Braeden. She was badly shaken by her conversation with Sander and would have liked to talk to Braeden about it, but she didn’t want to disturb his sleep. Braeden was sprawled out on his back, a thick blanket draped over his legs. He’d undone the tie of his robes, and the black bell sleeves were pushed down to his hips. Bare to the waist, he was savagely beautiful, his lithe body covered by a smooth canvas of golden skin, apart from the ruined ink on his right arm. The wound itself had mostly healed, leaving behind a thick pink scar, but the tattooed image was irrevocably damaged. She wondered if it still bothered him. She arranged her bedding with as little noise as possible, but Braeden stirred despite her best efforts. He pushed his silver hair off his forehead and looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Sam,” he said, his voice raspy from sleep. “What’s happened?” He knew her too well; he saw the tightness of her shoulders and the wrinkle between her brows. For him, that was enough. There was no hiding from Braeden, not anymore. “Sander knows,” she said. She wouldn’t have to tell him what. He immediately sat up. “How?” She pulled her knees into her chest. “He guessed.” “Does he have proof?” “It’s not hard to prove. One merely has to lift up my shirt.” Even in the dark, she could see his blush.  “Have I offended you with my crudeness?” Braeden coughed. “No,” he said. “What should we do about it?” Not what should you do about it, but what should we. She wanted to throw her arms around him and thank him, but their rekindled friendship was too new, the scar on his shoulder too fresh. “Thank you,” she said instead. “I don’t deserve you.” “Never say that,” he half-growled. She shook her head. “I’ve caused you nothing but trouble since the day we met.” “Maybe I like your kind of trouble,” he said, not meeting her eyes. He pulled his blanket to his shoulders, his broad feet sticking out the other end, and she grinned in spite of herself. The grin turned into a giggle, and she promptly covered her mouth with her hand. “What?” Braeden asked. “Your feet. They look funny.” Gods, she never giggled. Wearing a dress must have addled her brain. Her giggles increased. “Sorry,” she gasped, quaking with laughter. “I think I must be distraught.” His lips twitched, threatening a smile, but he suppressed it quickly. “What are we going to do about Sander, Sam?” “He said he wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said. “And you believe him?” She paused before replying. Could Sam believe Sander? She still wasn’t sure. She didn’t know what to make of the older man, with his talk of duty and capability. And not that she’d ever really consider it, but she wondered if he’d meant what he said about allowing a woman among the Uriel. “I don’t know." “You need to tell Tristan, Sam,” Braeden said, “before Sander tells him for you.” “What difference does it make if it’s Sander who tells Tristan or me? The end result will be the same.” “All the difference in the world, Sam,” said Braeden. “Hearing it from Sander would be like a knife through the gut. It has to be you.” “It doesn’t have to be anyone,” she said. Braeden rubbed at his face. “Do as you want.” She watched his hand stroke the pale stubble on his chin, and imagined tracing her fingertip over the strong lines of his jaw. “I always do,” she said. You’re my only exception.