Page 4 of FoolSilver
“It’s Max!” Captain Obvious shouted.
Aelindor was out of our tent in a flash, already gone. Caspian and I shoved through the tent flap into the cold night air.
The DarkVeil loomed at our backs. The campfire had burned down to embers. Spartans were rising, hands on weapons, heads turning toward the sound.
Max’s tent was three strides from ours. Caspian reached it before me, ripping the flap aside and ducking in. I followed a half-second later, sword in hand, ready to slay whatever had gotten to her.
No demons. No breach. No blood.
Aelindor knelt on the bedroll with Max in his lap, his arms locked around her. Her face was buried in the curve of his neck, her fingers knotted in his shirt, her body shaking with sobs.
He wore loose trousers and a linen shirt, hastily pulled on, sleeves shoved to his elbows.
He’d kissed her to comfort her. I could tell from the way her lips were parted, from the way his breathing hadn’t quite steadied. The knowledge of it drove through the center of my chest like a hot blade.
Caspian dropped to one knee beside them, the wolf in him close to the surface—I could see the gold bleeding into his green eyes, the tension in his jaw.
“What happened, Max?” he asked in a low, urgent voice.
Her head lifted from Aelindor’s neck, and she gazed at him, her midnight eyes wide and wrecked, full of tears.
I’d never seen her in tears before. Not on the first day when they’d dragged her into my interrogation room, starved yet defiant, lying through her teeth with a spine made of steel. Not when the mob came for her in the barracks. Not even when my fire stripped her bare in front of a thousand soldiers.
And now she was ugly crying, the sound twisting my insides. Even my dragon went silent, the fire at the back of his throat dying. The armor of anger and distrust I wore vanished, replaced by an unguarded impulse to cross the tent and pull her into my arms.
But I didn’t move. I stood rigidly at the entrance, watching.
Chapter 2
Max
The tent flap ripped open, and the cold night rushed in with it.
Caspian came through the entrance, broad shoulders filling the gap, wine-red hair flattened on one side from sleep. He wore a crumpled T-shirt and a pair of trunks. He must’ve rolled off his bedroll and charged in here.
Drakken slid in behind him.
The dragon prince had to duck lower than Caspian to clear the flap. He was bare from the waist up, all hard muscle and fury, a pair of dark jeans hanging low on his hips. He carried his broadsword, his gray eyes sweeping the tent, cataloging threats.
When they found only me crumpled in Aelindor’s lap, his expression flickered with confusion, or even worry, before his face went unreadable. Drakken wasn’t the kind of man who allowed himself to show any emotions except for rage.
The three heirs filled my small tent like war gods crammed into a closet. The air charged with their combined presence—Fae magic and wolf heat and dragon fire and the weight of three alphas who ruled a kingdom, all of it pressing against the canvas walls until I half-expected the seams to split.
They’d come running at a scream I didn’t even remember making.
Aelindor had gotten to me before the sound had left my throat, as if something between us ran deeper than proximity. He’d felt the fracture in me before it became a sound and pulled me into his arms while driving away the nightmare with a kiss.
Caspian dropped to a crouch beside me, his green eyes roving over me to check if I was all right.
“What happened, Max?” he asked with urgent concern.
His warmth made me want to throw myself into his arms too, even though I was in Aelindor’s embrace.
I gazed at him through the blur of tears.
Outside, I could sense the Spartans closing in, boots on packed earth, the clink of weapons drawn. A head poked through the tent flap, lantern light spilling across the canvas floor.
Drakken didn’t turn around. He just lifted one hand and waved the soldier off. The Spartan withdrew.
