Drothiker

27.

Unexplainedly, Syrene's each instinct went on alert.

She only caught a glimpse of Azryle from the corner of her eye, heard the whisper of water with his steps before she felt a cloth around herself and his arm hoisting her up, then she was hurled over his broad shoulder. His citrus and musk scent heaved up her nose.

With a shock, she noticed she was out of water the next moment, his speed morphed the surroundings hazy, wind itched at her skin.

She bounced and slammed into his shoulder, burrowing in her stomach with a brutal impact. "What are you doing," she barked over the winds. She was suddenly very mindful of her nakedness under the cloak he'd swathed around her, his arms on her bare legs.

"Saving you from being a dinner, cub," he murmured.

Syrene craned her neck, half expecting to see some beast, but there were only trees stretching everywhere possible. It was only when she focused past the bellowing of wind, did she hear them—those distant, low snarls. Too many, too revolting. Her blood went cold.

"Why are they trailing us?" she gasped. "I thought they feared you."

"They aren't trailing us," he breathed. "Only you."

She knocked her fear away before it could spark. "Why?"

To that, the ripper didn't reply. She didn't suppose he had any.

"Where are you—"

Before she could complete, they entered a cave and Azryle perched her down against a stone wall. She shut her eyes and groaned at the pain in her stomach, at the unease the soaked cloth around her damp body instigated.

Syrene opened her eyes to catch Azryle looking away, he ambled to the cave mouth, and she knew why when she peered down at herself. The cloak had hiked up, baring her thighs wholly, it'd slopped from her shoulder. She adjusted it and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Azryle?" she groaned. "I'm fairly certain you've seen enough naked women."

"And?" His gaze remained scanning the woods outside, his voice almost guttural. Syrene contained herself from grinning.

"And"—she lifted to her feet—"you obviously know each possible art of a woman's body."

Being naked didn't put her at unease—not in the least. For five years in Jegvr, perceived by almost every sentinel, clad in nothing but a too-diaphanous dress, touched everywhere while being bathed, after draining the first year in pure horror, Syrene had eventually stopped caring.

What did put her at unease, though, was Azryle's gaze when he turned to her. Her whole body prickled as she caught a gleam of desire—wild, untamed—blistering ferociously in his eyes. It was all she could do to keep herself from showing what it tugged in her.

His gaze remained on her face as he whispered, so softly that she barely heard it, "It's not whether or not I've seen enough naked women to know the art, it's not even whether or not I want to look. It's whether the woman wants to be looked at—that's what matters." He drew closer, enough for the heat of his body to seep into hers. And her breath hitched when he scraped his knuckles down her cheek, calluses rasped against her skin. And it took everything in her to not give into it. "Do you want to be looked at, Alpenstride?"

Abyss spare her. Her name at his lips was a melody to her ears. It had never—never—sounded so wonderful. So undoing. She had to dig her feet in the dirt to keep her toes from curling, for she knew Azryle was aware of her each breath, each movement in her muscles.