Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)

The fire and frustration in his eyes flicker and dim to something softer. My challenge hangs between us. Cohen’s unfocused gaze carries over my head, and I wonder where his thoughts have taken him, though I don’t dare break the silence. He just stands there, a one-man island between the door and bed.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says, subdued. “I’ve no doubt you’d care if I were dying.” He coughs the grating from his throat. “Forgive me, Dove. I’m sorry.”

His apology doesn’t crack the wall I’ve erected between us; it obliterates it.

Emboldened by his sweet resignation, I glance at the bed that is barely large enough for two people. “We can share. It’s only for a couple nights.”

His eyes leap to mine.

I feign nonchalance, though I’m thinking and rethinking and overthinking my offer. The area in the woods we shared was about the same size. It would be no different from sleeping outside, except for the roof above our heads and the soft mattress.

He looks at the bed, then me. His gaze turns molten. “If you’re certain.”

I look away. “If you make it an issue, then I’ll take back the offer. Or if you snore, I’ll push you onto the floor. There are enough bears in the woods—”

“You don’t want another in your bed.” He finishes, matching the cheek in my answer. But his playfulness makes me dizzy.

“Just don’t snore,” I say in a rasp. I turn away, hiding my face, and remove my weapons, placing them on the floor near the bed. Cohen does the same after he sharpens the blade of his sword and checks the arrows in his quiver. A bucket of warm water and a bar of soap later, I’ve washed myself clean while Cohen is gone from the room. When he returns, his skin is scrubbed free of dirt and his cheeks are tinged pink.

The moment we both stand on either side of the bed, my nerves come alive again like lightning bugs. I look to Cohen, hoping he’ll make the first move. He doesn’t so much as blink. Ignoring the commotion buzzing beneath my skin, I climb onto the mattress.

A second later, Cohen drops down beside me. His weight indents the mattress, causing me to roll against his body. His very warm body.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I scramble to the edge of the bed and turn to look at the plaster above us.

Cohen’s soft chuckle echoes in the darkness. “You’d think I actually was a bear for how skittish you are tonight.”

“It’s your odor I was avoiding.”

He turns his nose into himself and draws a deep breath. “I smell just right,” he says, sounding incensed.

I can hardly stifle my laughter. I open my mouth to tease him more, but before another word is out, the brute covers me with his hulking form. “Admit I smell just fine, Britt.”

“Get off me.”

“Admit it, or you’ll be smelling me all over you the entire night.”

Honestly, he smells wonderful. Like fresh mountain air and masculinity and . . . I squirm beneath him, hoping he won’t notice how flushed I’ve suddenly become.

Cohen stills. His eyes lose their teasing tilt, darkening till they’re brown as bark instead of hazel, as his attention follows an invisible path along the curves of my face until landing on my lips.

His jaw ticks.

“Night, Dove,” is all he says before he abruptly pushes off of me and moves away, hugging the far side of the bed.

I lie there, breathless and confused. Was he about to kiss me? Impossible.

I want to smack myself. It’s obvious he still sees me as nothing more than a friend or a sister, since he pulled away despite the eagerness painted all over me. I’m such a fool. A wanton, ridiculous fool.



We stick beside the inn until nightfall and then make our way to the market square at the center of town, where the Merryluna Festival is alive with music and dancing under strings of hung lanterns. Laughter is shared and smiles tossed around as we weave through the edge of the packed, cheerful crowd. Ale flows from barrels set on tables beside sweet cakes and breads. The nutty aroma of the fresh loaves reminds me of the time Papa tasked Cohen with a week of kitchen work as punishment for not having prepared his arrows properly before a hunt. Cohen had the last laugh when he baked two loaves of the best bread I’ve ever had—?a skill forced on him by his mother. A smile runs free across my face. I turn to ask Cohen if he remembers, but in the crush, we’ve been separated.

The top of his brown hair bobs several paces away. I move toward him as the fiddles adopt a brighter, jauntier tune. The onlookers whoop in recognition. Women in full skirts flock to the open area beside a circular water fountain, where they spin circles around men dressed in their finest tunics and coats. Stepping close, then moving away, their dance is a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of color.

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