Chapter 10 Chapter Ten
When Prince Sylvan notified her that under no circumstances would he be sleeping on the floor to give her space, Isla had reluctantly pulled a fur blanket down for herself. It had been incredibly fitful sleep until in the morning she’d started to dream of the heated sand on the beaches of Tridea at midday. How the warmth would seep through her skin and comfort her bones. She had lost count of the days she’d sought the warmth of the afternoon sand to erase her worries. Unfortunately, the dream didn’t last forever.
The sounds of the camp being deconstructed woke her from her slumber. The clattering of metal teapots, saddles being heaved onto horses and the grunt of men trying to remove tent stakes from the ground reminded her of exactly where she was. Yet… the warmth of the sand remained beneath her palms. She sighed, unwilling to open her eyes for the brief glimmer of hope that the dream may come back. Then she heard another sigh, this one of contentment… This one directly above her head, fanning her hair.
Her eyes snapped open. She was no longer on the floor. She wasn’t even on the cot. No, Isla was directly on top of the still unconscious Prince of Eredhal. What was even worse? He wasn’t even touching her. His hands were both under his head and it was her own arms wrapped around his torso like a starfish she’d once been unable to pluck from her leg. It was her head resting against his sternum, lulled to sleep by the steady thumping of his strong heart beneath his ribcage.
Isla jerked away with a cry. Sylvan came awake with a start. He lurched upward, a dagger in one hand ready to defend them and the other hand wrapped around her shoulder, holding her close to his chest.
“What are you doing?!” she shrieked, disentangling herself from his grasp and scooting as far away from him on the cot as was possible.
Sylvan blinked both eyes before squinting one as he fought the lingering effects of sleep. His hair was tousled, his silver eyes dulled from exhaustion and, with horror, she realized he was also naked from the waist down.
“Up until two minutes ago, I was having the best night of sleep in years… and then a banshee woke me up. What are you doing?” he grumbled, his voice husky and low. He stabbed the dagger into the ground beside him and popped his back.
“Did you trick me or dose me with some kind of drug?” she asked, crossing her arms.
He stared at her for a moment in genuine confusion. He looked around and then down at the ground where she’d fallen asleep. Then a smirk pulled at his face that made him seem even younger and boyish than sleep had.
“You crawled into bed with me, didn’t you?” he asked, looking ever so proud.
Isla gaped at him. “No! I… I woke up here and that must mean…”
“There’s no reason to feel ashamed, Isla,” he told her with a chuckle and a shake of his head as he threw his legs over the cot and stood.
Isla turned her gaze away to avoid having to look at the sculpted shape of his ass. She’d gotten enough of a look at it the day before. She could probably sketch every curve and angle to damn near perfection with as long as he’d kept her thrown over his shoulder.
“I am not ashamed,” she corrected him. “I am…” Sylvan casually slipped his arms through his robe and turned to face her, his smile wider and one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Mortified,” she finished.
He shook his head again and took a swig of water before handing the pitcher over to her. The tent flap opened enough for a man to announce that the camp was nearly ready to head out as soon as the Prince gave the word.
“Thank you, Nikolai,” Prince Sylvan said, his eyes still on Isla. “Well, little leech, are you ready to head home?”
“Home?” she asked, hope flaring in her chest, which was immediately smothered when she realized what he meant. The hope turned to hatred and she stood to her full height. “Eredhal will never be home to me, Mate Killer.”
Sylvan shrugged. “We shall see. Take a moment to get yourself ready,” he said, already donning some pants and throwing a loose fitted white shirt over his head. He grabbed his boots sitting by the entrance of the tent. “A few men will be here in about five minutes to take the tent apart, though, so if I were you, I’d hurry. I’ll be waiting for you by the horses.”
With that, the prince left her alone. She sighed deeply and glanced around herself. What was there to prepare? She’d come with the clothes on her back and the daggers in her skirt. She thought of Luoen and her heart sank. Yet another love she would have to let go of. Realizing there was nothing here for her, Isla slunk out of the tent. She quickly spotted the Prince, already astride his own steed: a tall, black stallion with a slender white stripe down its head, built to handle the massive frame of a rider like the prince.
Sylvan leaned over the horse’s neck on the pommel of his saddle, conversing with a warrior who stood enough distance away that the agitated stallion couldn’t stomp him into the ground. For a moment, the briefest flicker in time, she admired the way the white shirt billowed around the Prince’s torso. How the chords of his arms bunched as the horse moved and his gloved hands subtly commanded the horse with nothing but a twitch. His black pants hid the skin of his thighs and calves but could do nothing to obscure the length or power they held.
Sensing her gaze, the Prince’s head slowly turned to look at her. He seemed to be smiling, as if he’d known all along that she had been admiring him and had allowed it to happen. Isla tucked her chin, crossed her arms and looked away toward another group of men sitting atop their mounts. Then she noticed him: Luoen.
“Luoen!” Isla shrieked.
Immediately the horse’s head whipped around at her voice. He raised his head, ears trained forward as he neighed his response. Isla didn’t think, she sprinted toward him. The man daring to sit on her horse fought to keep control of the stallion she’d raised from a colt. Little did he know the extensive time and energy she’d put into training Luoen and the various cues he would respond to that only she knew. Once within a few feet, she raised both hands, index fingers up and thumbs pointing inward, creating a frame. Understanding the command perfectly, Luoen, jumped up on his front feet once before launching himself upward so that he was practically standing straight up on his back two feet.
The soldier, not expecting the move in the slightest, immediately toppled. Isla whistled and Luoen launched forward. She hopped on her toes and didn’t give the command to slow. Instead, as he galloped by her, she grabbed hold of the saddle, hopped twice on the ground and threw herself upward. She took hold of the reins and whistled again, telling him to not stop for anything. She could hear the chaos behind her but she didn’t dare look back. Tears burned her eyes as Luoen soared over the clearing toward the forest that would take her home. Right as they reached the treeline, she saw a rope appear in her periphery. Almost in slow motion, she saw the looped rope circle Luoen’s neck and go taut.
Luoen grunted and did his best to remain upright while being met with an immovable force. Isla looked upward at the man she was now facing. The black stallion and his insufferable rider were steadfast. The horse’s feet were dug deep into the soft earth as she encouraged Luoen to fight. The grey stallion reared and thrashed against its binding. The rope latched around Prince Sylvan’s saddle smoked as he held it tight amid Luoen’s assault. His expression was stone, if not bored, while he watched their struggle.
“If you care for the beast at all,” he said, his voice cutting through the cries of Luoen. “You’ll tell him to cease before he snaps his neck.”