Page 49 of Trapped With My Dark Elf
“You’re shaking hard enough to break your own teeth.”
“That feels exaggerated.”
“It was charitable.”
I set her on my bedroll nearest the flames, strip the soaked outer cloak from her shoulders, and feed another branch to the fire until sparks climb into the dark rock above us. Heat blooms slowly, fragrant with resin and charred pine. She tries to sit straighter, tries to reclaim dignity from simple necessity, and another brutal shudder takes her before the attempt finishes.
Enough.
I sit behind her, draw the dry blanket around both of us, and pull her back against my chest so my body blocks the draft cutting through the overhang. For one rigid moment she resists on instinct alone. Then survival speaks louder than pride. She sags into the hold with a low exhale she likely hopes I mistake for annoyance.
“There,” I murmur near her ear. “Open rebellion postponed.”
“If I stab you in your sleep,” she says through chattering teeth, “remember this as motive.”
“I’ll treasure the context.”
Gradually the tremors shorten. Her breathing evens. Damp hair cools against my jaw. I feel each tiny shift as warmth returns to her muscles by degrees. Outside the shelter, rain begins again in a soft persistent hiss through leaves. The beasts stamp once, then settle. Somewhere farther off, something cries out in the forest and receives no answer.
She falls asleep before admitting she is tired. I remain awake longer than necessary, replaying the collapse in the basin with the same method I reserve for failed negotiations and battlefield surprises.
She led us into unstable ground while visibly distressed. She argued against caution when she usually values leverage overhaste. She froze when I offered my hand, though moments later she trusted it. Her fear had shape, but the shape was aimed at me rather than the terrain. That fear did not originate in the basin.
Earlier she recoiled after a vision as though waking from violence already inflicted. The sequence resolves into an unpleasant conclusion. She saw something involving me.
Whether true future, manipulated illusion, or her own dread dressed as prophecy remains uncertain.
What matters is simpler. Her visions can no longer be treated as clean intelligence.
By dawn the rain has passed and the forest steams faintly where pale light reaches wet leaves. Aeryn wakes within the circle of my arms, realizes where she is, and goes perfectly still.
I loosen my hold at once. She rises without looking at me, gathers the blanket around her shoulders, and moves to the fire with the studied composure of someone pretending the night never occurred. I permit the fiction for exactly the time required to boil water.
Then I stand.
“Aeryn.”
She glances over, wary already.
“Come here.”
“I dislike that tone.”
“You’ll dislike the alternative more.”
The overhang narrows toward the rear where stone walls meet at an angle too tight for easy escape. I guide her there with nothing but presence and the certainty of my intention. She could refuse. She does not. Perhaps because she is tired. Perhaps because some part of her wants the same thing I do now, clarity.
When her back reaches the stone, I stop one pace away. No touching. No room to evade.
“We are changing methods,” I say.
“That sounds ominous.”
“That is overdue.”
Her chin lifts. Defiance by reflex.
“From this moment,” I continue, “I ask precise questions. You answer precisely. If you do not know, say so. If you refuse, say so. If you lie, I will know.”
