Chapter 52: Cenric

Chapter

Fifty-Two

CENRIC

At the first crack of dawn, I climb from the bed, needing distance, needing a damn dip in the lake to shock some sense into me. Maybe the icy plunge would make me forget the tempting warmth of Everly's body next to mine through the night.

I dress quickly, donning my armor and cloak, then glance back at Everly. She looks so peaceful, one hand resting beneath her head, the other clutching a carved wooden fox.

Last night had been torture. I am a fool to think I could share a tent with her without wanting her, without longing to reach across the space between us and bring her into my arms.

I draw in a quick breath before approaching her and touching her shoulder. "Everly."

She stirs, long lashes fluttering open to reveal her eyes, still clouded with sleep.

"We need to get moving," I tell her. "Get dressed. "

I take in the sight of her—hair mussed from sleep, a slight flush to her cheeks. My fingers tingle with the desire to reach out, to brush back the unruly curls from her face, to let my fingers linger on her skin.

She blinks up at me, her eyes slowly focusing, and I'm struck by how blue they are in the dim light of the tent. I could lose myself in those eyes.

"Cenric?" she says, her voice husky with sleep.

"Get dressed," I repeat, more gruffly than I intend. "We have a lot to do today."

She frowns but nods, pushing back the blankets and climbing from the bed. The thin nightdress she wears does little to conceal her figure.

My throat goes dry at the sight of her curves—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.

She turns, giving me a perfect view of her backside, and I stifle a groan. The nightdress rides up as she bends to retrieve her clothes, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her thighs.

Everly glances over her shoulder, catching me staring. A blush spreads across her cheeks as she clutches her clothes to her chest.

"Do you mind?" she asks, her voice a mix of embarrassment and something else—something that makes my blood run hot.

I force myself to look away. "Of course."

Even as I turn my back to give her privacy, the image of her body is burned into my mind.

The rustle of fabric behind me is torture. I clench my fists, fighting the urge to turn around—to bring her into my arms and claim her lips, to explore every curve and valley of her body with my hands, my mouth.

"I'm decent," Everly says.

I turn, and the sight of her fully dressed in the blue surcoat I gave her is almost as enticing as when she was in her nightdress. The fabric hugs her figure in all the right places, accentuating the curves I'd been admiring.

She smiles as she runs her hands through her curls in an attempt to tame them. The simple action sends a jolt of longing through me.

"Ready?" I ask, my voice sounding strained even to my ears.

She grabs her cloak. "Let's go."

I lead the way out of the tent and into the crisp morning air. A light snow falls around us as I stride ahead. Every step widens the gap between us, but it's not enough. I need more distance, more space to breathe without her scent clouding my senses.

Everly's footsteps echo behind me. I resist the impulse to slow down, to fall in step beside her.

We weave through the tents. Warriors nod as we pass, but I barely notice them. My mind is consumed by the woman following me.

"Cenric," she calls, her voice breathy from trying to keep up.

I don't respond, don't trust myself to speak. Instead, I lengthen my stride, putting more distance between us.

Words crowd my throat—apologies, explanations, confessions—but I swallow them down. It's safer this way, safer to keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself.

We reach the center of the camp, where a few early risers are already gathered around the cooking fires. I stop abruptly, nearly causing Everly to collide with me. She stumbles, catching herself just before she bumps into my back. I feel the ghost of her touch, the near miss, sending fire through my veins.

I jerk my chin toward a nearby log. "Sit," I say, the word coming out harsher than I intend.

A flicker of hurt crosses her face before she masks it. She drops onto the log without a word.

I remain standing and slide my fingers into my weapon belt. The energy thrumming through my veins demands an outlet, and standing is safer than the alternatives my traitorous mind suggests.

From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Morwen. She stands by the nearest fire, her weathered hands busy stirring a pot of porridge. But her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, are fixed on us.

Her lips purse, and I can almost hear the lecture forming in her mind. She's never been one to hold her tongue, especially when she thinks I'm being a fool. And right now, the look on her face tells me she thinks I'm being the biggest fool.

Focus.

I draw in an icy breath. The scents of the camp fade away: the smoke from the cooking fires, the earthy smell of horses, even Everly's lingering lavender and lemon balm.

I focus on my breathing, slow and steady. In. Out. In. Out.

My mind empties, thoughts draining away like water from a broken terracotta jar. The ache in my chest dulls. The fire in my veins cools.

I become a hollow vessel, stripped of desire, of longing, of pain. My fingers uncurl from my weapon belt. My shoulders relax, tension seeping from my muscles.

I am stone. I am ice. I am the unyielding blade of my sword.

This is how I survived my first battle at fourteen summers. How I weathered the storm of my mother's abandonment. How I've led men into war and brought them home again.

I am Cenric, warrior of the Bloodstone tribe. I have no room for weakness, for want, for the softness of a woman's touch.

My eyes open, scanning the camp with detached efficiency. I see tasks to be done, duties to fulfill.

Nothing more.