She was magnetic. She was enthralling.
She was insufferable.
“I’m….” he started, stopped. His eyes darted over the trees, rested briefly on her snarling hellhound, cast upwards to the sky. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “You’re….” this was useless. He glared at her. Tahl had never been a wordsmith – even if he were, he couldn’t square off with Elina in witty repartee – and he couldn’t just confess everything he was feeling to her. Was he pleased to see her? Yes! And…No! She was a fantasy, and fantasies were not supposed to manifest in the real world. Especially not this world, where he was dirty, and tired, and had work to do, and a secret identity to hide. But even as he stared her down, suspicion and frustration and panic and longing warring over control of his expression, he couldn’t deny that part of him wanted to pin her to that tree and just…lose himself.
If he were to admit that weakness, he might as well bare his throat.
“This isn’t a joke, Elina.” He hated the hint of peevishness in his voice, hated his own obviousness. It clearly was a joke, to her. A game. And she played him so easily, read him like an open book. It seemed pointless to come up with some false explanation for any of it, so he fixed instead on what he decided he could answer. Held onto the audaciousness of her judgment like a lifeline. As long as he felt more irritated than aroused, maybe he could maintain some kind of control over the situation.
Maybe.
It also helped that they both wore a lot of clothes. And that she was looking for Tristan…to “offer her services.” Tahl didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
“I live here,” he informed her tonelessly. His scowl shifted into something like a sneer, jaw clenching. “You don’t. So you don’t get to make the rules. And I don’t have the luxury of some warrior’s code when I have people relying on me to keep them fed. Wolves and foxes don’t either, for the record.” He bent to snatch his bow from the ground, and when he straightened, he could see that provoking her had been a mistake. She advanced on him, the sway of her hips making his eyes widen in alarm. But to retreat would only encourage her, so he stood his ground, spine straightening, limbs tense.
To his credit, he did not blush.
“You know nothing about me,” he countered in a growl, fastening her wrist with an iron grip to prevent her fingertips from wandering any further. But he did not push her away, and he had to take a beat – a breath with his eyes closed, to shut out the nearness of her, the temptation – before continuing. His voice dropped low and quiet. “And I know nothing about you. But you want Tristan; up until this point, the forest hasn’t let you through. There’s usually a reason. Do you work for Mordred?” Tahl held her eye, searching for some hint of malevolence beneath all the imperiousness and innuendo. What would it look like? All he could see was the fresh green of new leaves, of a tropical wave with light streaming through, and just like that he was remembering the last time they were this close in exquisite, excruciating detail. He winced.
Gods, if he did this for her…if he brought her to camp, and she turned out to be a spy, or an assassin…
“Can you stop trying to manipulate me long enough to tell me why I should trust you?”
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