Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)

“You’re certain?” Cohen’s eyes brighten.

“Aye. His mother releases the moonflowers every year into the fountain at midnight. He always comes to watch.”

“Looks like I’ll be needing to stay two nights instead.” The men chuckle while I piece together what’s going on. Seems as though this Duff Baron person may know something about my father’s murder and will be at the town’s celebration. I was going to insist we only stay one night, but if he can answer questions about Papa, it’ll be worth sticking around.

The conversation shifts to Cohen’s brother, Finn. And a spark of pain shoots through Cohen’s eyes.

“Finn’s been called to fight in the war. He’s stationed at Alyze, just north of Fennit.” Cohen’s answer comes as a complete shock, since he hasn’t mentioned Finn or his army assignment the entire time we’ve been together. It floods me with guilt. I’ve been so bent on finding out why Cohen left that I didn’t think to even ask about his family.

“No matter what side he’s on, the lad’s too young for the war front.” Sympathy pours from Kendrick.

He leads us back to the inn, where a young boy and girl come bolting through the door. They’re a twisting windstorm of laughter and squeals.

“Mattie. Meg!” Kendrick fixes them with a stern gaze.

Both kids skid to a halt. The girl clamps a little dirt-stained hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. The boy is less successful.

“Have you gathered the eggs?”

The boy’s laughter fades. “Not yet, Papa.”

Both children’s faces turn repentant as Kendrick gives them a light scolding before sending them on their way.

“Nine and ten years old . . . think they have the run of the inn.” Kendrick puffs out a breath of exasperation, but tenderness softens his expression. Reminded of the way Papa used to chastise me and Cohen, I feel a small lump catch in my throat as we follow him inside the inn.

Kendrick gestures to a cozy, torch-lit hallway beyond the kitchen area. “Get some rest. The boy looks like he could use it.”

I frown and pad along the plank flooring, following Cohen down the hall. His shoulders fill the entry as he turns the last door’s knob and gestures for me to pass.

“Where are you staying?” I ask at the same time he says, “We’re in here.”

“We’re?”

Cohen nudges me forward and closes the solid wood door behind him, sliding the lock in place, before speaking in low tones. “It would’ve looked odd if the lad traveling with me needed a room to himself.”

All right, that makes sense. And yet he could’ve just told Kendrick I’m a girl.

I look pointedly at Cohen, who somehow seems three times larger in the weak light filtering between the linen curtains, before stepping around him to study the room.

One bed. One chair.

Thankfully Cohen remains behind me, so he cannot see how my eyes grow two sizes bigger. There’s no need to feel self-conscious. After all, we’ve been sleeping by each other for the last week. Even so, my insides could be a gaggle of geese for all the chaos beneath my skin. It takes a moment to shutter my reaction away, then I turn back to face him and—?boil the bludger—?Cohen doesn’t appear the least bit affected.





Chapter

16


“WORRIED?” HE READS ME SO WELL. “I’ll take the floor.”

There’s no rug to cushion the dark tea-stained planked floor. It’s not an improvement over the forest’s packed dirt, which is the entire reason Cohen wanted to sleep here.

“You wanted a bed; you have it,” I tell him.

He folds his arms and stares at me, throwing down an unspoken challenge.

I stare back. I once heard the phrase He who talks first loses. So when Cohen opens his mouth to speak, I throw a little victory celebration in my head until he says, “This isn’t up for discussion.”

Mule.

“Exactly,” I retort. “My choice is the floor.”

A line furrows between his brows. He waves a hand at the bed. “It’s more comfortable.”

“Which is why you should sleep there.”

He grits his teeth. “You’re always so stubborn. So pigheaded.”

“Pigheaded? Me?” I hit him with an incredulous stare. He has little room to be talking. After all, we’re at the inn despite my protests. His head jerks in a sharp nod, like adding kindling to a fire, and my temper flares.

“Britt, you would fight me on a request even if I were taking my last begging breath.”

Bloody bludger. I throw my pack on the bed and spin to face him, hands in fists. “You think I wouldn’t care that you were dying as long as I was getting my way?”

Erin Summerill's books