Rowan Whitethorn had fought in more wars than he cared to count. He’d faced demons, gods, and horrors that could peel the sanity from a lesser male. He’d survived betrayal, fire, and the wrath of Maeve herself.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for her.
Fenrys and Connall’s insufferable, impossible, sharp-tongued little sister. The gods were laughing. He was certain of it.
The tent flap fluttered in the wind, cold seeping through the canvas like a curse, and Rowan lay there, staring at the ceiling, every muscle in his body drawn tight with fury. He could hear her breathing beside him—uneven, too loud—and every few minutes came the sound of her snoring. Not softly, not gracefully. No. It was the unholy snore of someone at complete, smug peace with the fact that she was ruining his life. He’d tried to be civil at the start. Truly. She was Fenrys and Connall’s sister—barely twenty, too young to be in a war camp, too full of arrogance to realize just how stupid it was to mouth off to him. He’d told himself to be patient.
That vow had lasted all of ten minutes.
She picked fights for sport, rolled her eyes when he gave orders, called him “old man” like it was an insult instead of an observation—and now, now she had committed the greatest offense of all.
She’d stolen the gods-damned blanket. Again.
Rowan turned his head, glaring into the dim light. There she was, cocooned like some smug little caterpillar, wrapped in the entire blanket, leaving him bare to the biting night air.
He muttered something unholy under his breath, shifting onto his side. “Unbelievable,” he hissed.
She didn’t stir. Of course not.
The camp was silent save for the wind, and his teeth began to chatter. He glared at her sleeping form, debating if he could, by any stretch of the law, classify this as an act of war. That decided it.
Rowan reached out and yanked the blanket toward himself with a sharp, practiced motion, the kind that might’ve disarmed a warrior twice his size. She made a small, grumbling noise but didn’t wake, only rolled over, taking half the blanket with her.
He growled, low and dangerous, and gave another tug.
She tugged back.
His head snapped toward her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Rowan yanked hard this time, managing to pull most of it free—and immediately wrapped himself in victory and warmth. He allowed himself one glorious second of satisfaction before it all went to hell. Because her cold feet—ice blocks, frozen daggers of death—slid right up against his bare stomach.
He hissed, jerking back. “What the—?!”
She mumbled again, then latched onto the blanket with the strength of a gods-damned wyvern. Rowan held firm, teeth bared, the two of them now engaged in a full-blown tug-of-war in the middle of the night.
“Let go.” He gritted.
“Cold,” she mumbled, still half asleep, her words slurred.
“Not my problem,” he snapped, pulling harder.
Her foot pressed higher this time—an icy, deliberate strike to his ribs. Rowan nearly swore loud enough to wake the whole camp. “I swear, if you touch me with those demon feet again—”
She kicked him. And that was it.
He rolled, pinning the blanket beneath his weight, arms crossed over his chest in grim satisfaction. “Try taking it now,” he muttered.
She blinked awake at last, bleary-eyed and glaring. “What in the gods’ name are you doing?”
“Reclaiming what’s mine.”
“It’s my blanket!” she hissed, sitting up.
“Our blanket,” he corrected, icily. “You’ve had more than your share.”
She scowled, hair a tangled halo, eyes glinting in the dark. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re loud.”
“I was asleep until you started wrestling me!”
“You were snoring.”
“I do not snore!”
“You sound like a dying wyvern.”
She gasped.
He only smirked, rolling onto his side again, blanket firmly in hand. “Sleep tight.”
A pause. Then, to his horror, she huffed—and slid closer.
“Don’t,” he warned.
"I'm freezing" she muttered.
He would not sleep. He couldn’t sleep. Because the universe, in all its cruel humor, had decided that his punishment for every sin he’d ever committed…was her.