Warcry

his odd city ways. She swayed toward him, licking her lips.
    “What we shared,” came his soft growl, “was not meaningless.”
    Atira started. “I didn’t mean—”
    “So it was meaningless,” his voice lowered, rough with desire, “when you were lying there at Master Healer Eln’s, bored out of your mind while your broken leg healed, and I came and read the Epic of Xyson for hours on end.”
    “Heath,” Atira whispered, fighting her rising need.
    “I taught you to read and write Xyian, and you taught me the language of the Plains,” Heath continued. “Lying there, your leg all rigged up. So beautiful. So determined to learn. To heal.”
    “As the Warlord commanded,” Atira said.
    “Meaningless, the first time I kissed you.” Heath lifted his hand and touched her lips. “I couldn’t get enough of your sweet mouth. We got those straps and weights all tangled, and Eln threatened to vivisect me.”
    Atira smiled faintly. “I didn’t know what that word meant.”
    “Eln explained it, didn’t he? In vivid detail.” Heath drew closer. Atira lifted her head, waiting . . . hoping . . .
    “Then the day that Eln let you walk, I suppose it was meaningless that we celebrated that night, late into the night.” Heath put his hand on her hip. The heat of it burned through her leathers. “Remember? That first night?”
    “Heath,” Atira breathed, letting her eyelids droop, taking in his scent. Waiting for his kiss.
    Instead, Heath knelt down, his gaze never leaving hers as he lowered himself down at her feet.
    Atira caught her breath.
    Heath calmly started to gather firewood.
    “Meaningless. All of it. Every danger, every bedding, everything we’ve shared.” Heath gathered several pieces of firewood as he spoke.
    Atira frowned down at the top of his curly head. “That is not what I meant. You Xyians—”
    Heath stood up abruptly and shoved the firewood at Atira. She took it, and then stood there as he started loading more on. “This isn’t about Xy, or the Plains. This is about you and me. It has been months since we shared our bodies. Months since you threw me out of your tent. Months since I asked you to bond with me.”
    “I am of the Plains,” Atira snapped. “I do not choose to bond. I am free to sleep with any others that I choose. You—”
    “But you haven’t,” Heath said.
    “What?” Atira stared at the man.
    “Months, now, since I asked you to bond with me,” Heath repeated as he took a step closer. “Since you threw me out of your tent and your life. But you haven’t shared with anyone else in all that time, Atira.”
    “I . . .” Atira raised her arms higher, as if the firewood could offer protection from the heat of those eyes.
    “Have you?” Heath demanded.
    “I—” Irritated at her own stuttering, Atira blurted out the truth. “No.”
    Heath pressed closer, forcing her to step back. “You can protest all you want, Atira of the Bear, but you and I know the truth. I love you. I want you, in all ways. Your obligations to the tribe are done. You are free to bond, free to choose a life with me. And that is what I want, Atira. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
    “No.”
    “You are afraid . . .” Heath said, his eyes flashing.
    “No,” Atira denied.
    “Uncomfortable then.” Heath started to smile. “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” He moved close enough that the bark on the firewood brushed his chest. “Don’t I?”
    Atira pressed her lips tight together, to keep from blurting out her fear. Of him. Of her feelings.
    Heath smirked. “I scare you, my fierce warrior. I terrify you.”
    Atira drew in a breath to deny his words, but Heath leaned in, his lips close to hers.
    “Coward,” he whispered.
    With a snarl Atira dropped the firewood and went for her dagger.
    Heath danced back, laughing, taunting her . . .
    “Heyla, you two.”
    They both jerked their heads around to see Prest coming toward them through the wood.
    “You are wanted.”
    “What is it?” Heath asked, still keeping a wary eye on Atira.
    “A messenger has come,” Prest said. “He carries news of your ‘father.’”

CHAPTER 4
     
    ATIRA FUMED AS SHE FOLLOWED PREST AND HEATH out of the woods, clutching her load of firewood and trying to avoid all the obstacles of the cursed trees. Roots to trip over, branches to fall on you. She wanted nothing to do with trees, with Xy, and with one city-dweller in particular.
    How dare he call her a coward? She should have gutted him where he