Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)

“A bad storm’s coming,” she says. “We need to get a move on if we want to gain some ground before it’s on top of us.”


I dust off my hands on my trousers. “I need a moment to clean up. I’ll be quick.”

“Go on, ready yourself. I’ll wake the bear,” she says with a smirk.

A foreign-sounding giggle bubbles out of me. I smack a hand over my mouth and turn on a heel to find the stream.

I scrub my face and hands in the chilly water, noting the temperature. Perhaps it’s the charge in the air—?like restrained lightning rallying for a strike—?that nauseates me at the thought of crossing the border. The image of the strung-up bodies is not a sight easily forgotten. We’ve already decided to bypass Alyze and Fennit by traveling through the mountains, because there will be fewer guards to watch out for.

Still, there are too many dangers ahead.

Once we reach the castle, Cohen will navigate the secret passages to Lord Jamis’s study so we can present him with the truth about who really killed my father, and then we’ll go to the king’s private chambers, where Enat will break the bind. Not the surest plan, but it’s all we have. What I fear most are the risks we’ll face after we cross the border. I’ve no friends in Malam. Certainly anyone aware of the bounty on my head will not hesitate to aid the king’s guards. One of my biggest worries, however, is for Enat, that she’ll be in harm’s way.

If anything happened to her, it would devastate me.

Like I have every day since we left Enat’s home, I scan the forest for a sign of another, though I’m certain Captain Omar would’ve surely struck by now if he was pursuing us. Nothing stands out in the light drizzle.

Before we head back to camp, a noise over the usual gurgle of a stream sounds somewhere up ahead. It’s Cohen—?my gut tells me so. The anticipation of being alone with him turns my skin into a net of butterflies. We’ve had little time with each other when Enat isn’t around. Before we reach Malam, I want a moment between us to clear the frustration.

Though I’m the Channeler, it feels as though he holds his own power, the draw of him leading me upstream, where the water curves around a jut of land. It is as though he has an invisible rope tied to my heart. I find him, on the river’s edge, wearing only his trousers as he makes a stack of small stones.

Drops of water linger on the powerful planes of his back, while a few trail the indent of his spine. My mouth turns bone-dry. There’s so much smooth skin, I almost don’t notice the faint scars, shiny slashes starting at his shoulder and disappearing beneath his arm. He turns, and I’m caught in the spell of silvery marks that crisscross over his torso and shoulders and abdomen. His body is scarred, but it is also perfection.

Seeds and stars, it should be illegal for him to go shirtless.

Cohen’s cleared throat shakes me from my gawking daze. “Good morning, Dove.”

I duck my head. “Morning, Cohen.”

“Did you need something?”

I press a rock deeper into the damp soil with the toe of my boot. “Will you always hate my gift?”

His lips part as though his answer is ready to be spoken, and then he closes his mouth and frowns. After a beat he says, “That’s not how I feel. I’m in awe and grateful for your gift daily.” He closes the space between us and lifts my chin. “These scars are a gift. I’m grateful for them as much as I am for your Spiriter ability. But I’ll never be fine with you putting yourself in danger. You’re taking a huge risk. If anyone finds out—”

I press my hand over his mouth.

His lips press against my palm in a gentle kiss, and though we’ve not reached any sort of understanding, it’s suddenly impossible to think with him so close. And shirtless. And dripping. Cohen tugs me against his smooth, hot, perfect skin and folds his arms around me. I wind my hands around his back, feeling the damp uneven ridges of flesh and wanting him even more.

The sky growls, warning of the storm coming our way.

Cohen’s expression clears and he abruptly steps away. “You should get back to camp.”

I leave, feeling as frustrated and unresolved as when I approached.



The horses work furiously to outrun the storm at our heels. The wind sweeps through the narrow canyon, pushing tree limbs to and fro, and howling through the landscape like a legion of specters as rain pours in solid sheets. We cannot stop and look for shelter because of the threat of flash floods. We’re forced to climb out along the path that hugs the rocky wall.

I keep my chin down, urging Aspen onward in Siron’s wake.

“We’re almost there,” Cohen yells, his words barely audible over the buckets of rain cascading off the rocky cliff beside us.

A bright light slashes the sky, illuminating the fissure of land leached of color. Three heartbeats later, thunder booms.

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