Tyronian sat and stared at the sprawled form of Namoriee as she slept peacefully in his bed. Her hair was wild, and he could see the lingering dampness along her hairline from her sweat. Her cheeks were a rosy red in color . . . well, one of them was.
He scanned the left side of her face, and his mood darkened as it always did when he gazed upon the massive bruising. Rage filled his veins, the need to kill flowing strongly.
Someone had attacked what was his.
Fists had marred her perfect bronze complexion, tarnishing something beautiful. Tyronian could admit that he lost himself a bit. He was so consumed with his need for her, his worry and anger, that he couldn’t focus on more than having a taste of her and making her moan his name. Making her realize, at least for a little bit, that she belonged to him, and it was his job to protect her.
A job that he failed at.
The door opened delicately, and Tristan poked his head in. His eyes landed on Namoriee, and a look passed over his face briefly before he brought his gaze to Tyronian. He motioned outside with his chin then disappeared behind the door as quietly as he appeared. Tyronian frowned, but stood and followed Tristan outside. He checked to make sure Namoriee was still sleeping before he closed the door and gave Tristan his full attention.
“Did you find out who attacked her?”
Tyronian stilled, thrown off at the question. “No.” He eyed Tristan suspiciously. “Not yet.”
“You need to be smart about this. You can’t just go and kill him, not after we just got the chiefs to agree to fight with us.”
Is he serious? Tyronian thought to himself in disbelief. “Someone touched what’s mine. I’m not just going to let it go. The fact that you’re asking me to makes me want to punch you more than usual.”
The corner of Tristan’s lips lifted, as if he wanted to smile, but he didn’t. His eyes, however, reflected something different.
“You know who it is,” Tyronian accused. He took a threatening step forward. “How?”
“I’m not telling you that you can’t retaliate,” Tristan replied, ignoring his question. “I’m telling you to be smart. I know it’s a hard concept for you.”
Tyronian scowled. “I’ll have you know that I’m the smartest one in the family. You and Xavier might as well be as dense as rocks.” It was untrue, of course. In all actuality, Xavier was probably the smartest one out of them all . . . well, usually. Leawyn had kind of brought his thinking ability to a standstill lately.
But Tyronian was prettier, which he told Tristan.
“My point is,” Tristan sighed, exasperated, “wait for the right time to strike.”
“And when might that be? She’s my woman, Tristan. You can’t just keep her attacker’s identity a secret!”
When Tristan continued to hold his tongue, Tyronian grabbed him and jerked him forward. “Tell me who it is!”
He didn’t even flinch. “The Warrior Choosing is coming up soon,” Tristan pointed out, and Tyronian knew where he was going with that. “You can challenge him there.”
The Warrior Choosing took place once every five winters. It was when all the tribes of Samaria came to a specific location and participated in games of battle with each other. It was designed as a way for the young men in the tribes to be selected to train as warriors. It also gave the seasoned warriors like himself the opportunity to challenge a warrior from a different tribe. The challenge was not made lightly, however, for to do so meant that they fight to the death. If Tyronian were to challenge Namoriee’s attacker, his actions would be pardoned by the chiefs when he won.
It was quite brilliant. But that didn’t change the fact that Tristan betrayed him.
“Why won’t you tell me?” he asked seriously. “Are we not like brothers?”
Something in Tristan’s expression changed, but before Tyronian could try to decipher it, it was gone.
“Challenge, and Namoriee will be forced to reveal who it is.”
“Fine,” Tyronian sighed, releasing Tristan. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get anything out of him. For whatever reason, Tristan had taken a vow of silence. Tyronian had to believe he had a good reason for it.
“I’ll wait until then. But I don’t like it,” Tyronian grouched, pointing a finger at Tristan.
“You’re making the right choice.” Tristan chuckled when Tyronian just mumbled incoherently at him.
“Oh, one more thing,” Tyronian said, clapping Tristan on the shoulder to stop him when he went to walk away. He threw a quick uppercut into Tristan’s stomach, causing Tristan to double over in pain.
“That’s for not telling me,” Tyronian told him before he punched him in his ribs. Tristan fell to one knee, holding his side, gasping for breath.
“That’s to ensure it never happens again.” He winked, patting Tristan’s back hard as he stepped around him and went back inside his hut.
Namoriee wasn’t sure what woke her, but when her eyes slowly peeled open, she had a moment of panic when she didn’t recognize the room she was in before the fog lifted and she remembered.
Cantos.
Her attack.
Tyronian finding out.
She felt warm, and it wasn’t just from the memory of what Tyronian had done to her body with his tongue. She glanced down at the arm draped over her waist, anchoring her to the hard chest that pressed against her back.
Tyronian.
He had carried her out of Tristan’s hut after taking another of her firsts by using his tongue on her. She flushed at the memory. He had looked carnivorous, devouring her as if his life depended on it. The way he wouldn’t let up, bringing her release repeatedly with just the flick of his tongue . . . it was unlike anything she had ever experienced.
She never thought that she would experience pleasure from a man again without thinking about . . .
Cantos.
The name was akin to a knife to her heart. He had touched her, tried to violate her, yet she let Tyronian do those acts to her. She didn’t try to fight him, didn’t cringe or feel aghast at the thought of his touch, at his desire to please her body.
She welcomed it. Wanted it . . . enjoyed it.
Instantly, she felt dirty. She felt like bugs were crawling over her skin, and her blood cooled. Her breathing sped up, and she was consumed with this unnatural need to bathe and scrub her skin raw.
Choking on a cry, she lifted Tyronian’s arm off her carefully, sliding out from under him and stumbling to her feet.
She was barely aware of her actions as she dressed.
The scenery of her village was blurred from tears as she stumbled out of his hut and down to the lake. She was dirty, and she had passed it on to him. Why? Why did she think she deserved his touch? Why didn’t she fight him? Why . . . did she want him?
What was wrong with her?
You’re selfish, a horrible voice whispered to her subconscious.
She clawed at her dress desperately, the fabric suffocating her. She gasped around a sob as she scooped handfuls of water and began to scrub her skin. The word “dirty” became a mantra with each splash.
Gentle hands gripped her wrists, and she looked up with bleary eyes. She blinked to bring the person into focus, causing more tears to drip off her lashes.
“I’m dirty,” she croaked, anguished.
Tyronian lowered her hands, eyes taking her in. She knew she had rubbed her skin completely raw, and there were thin trails of blood mixed with water from where her nails had nicked her flesh.
He cleared his throat, but his voice was still hoarse when he said, “Then let’s get you clean.”
He dropped her wrists and cupped his hands into the water.
Tyronian stayed with her. His hands scooping water was the only sound between them as he helped Namoriee get clean until there were no tears left for her to shed and her body was shivering from the cold.