The General's Daughter (Snow and Ash #1) (11 page)

He’s making me nervous with that silence of his.

“Any idea how long we slept?” I feel like an idiot. I doubt he’s slept much at all. Me either, for that matter, what with that libido of his.

He shrugs. “Getting light out. Let’s get moving.”

I tighten my belt one more time and pray that it doesn’t come loose. I look up and find him studying me with an oddly sad expression on his face.

I do not understand.

He kicks down the shelter and buries the debris. There’s a ton of ice on top of the snow, so it takes him a bit to break it up and then make it look natural again. I’d help him if I could, but I have no idea how.

He spots me watching him, and he purses his lips. He gives the pile one last kick. “Let’s go.”

I nod and stuff my hands in my pockets.

He turns away from me and starts out. Unlike yesterday, there is no hand-holding. Last night he held my entire body. Maybe holding my hand was his idea of foreplay.

Determined not to show him how insulted I feel—and truthfully, how hurt—I follow behind him. The crunch of our footsteps is the only sound until the wind begins to pick up. It slices through the tender skin of my cheeks, and I try to keep my hair tucked down into my coat as a sort of shield. It doesn’t do much.

I have no idea how he knows where to go, but he seems to. We trudge onward, hour after hour, and my hands are so cold I’m afraid they’ll develop frostbite. I work my arms out of the sleeves and into the chest portion of the coat, then stuff my hands in my pits. Gross.

But effective.

Why is he so angry? He wasn’t this way back at the trailer. He never pretended to like me, but this is new.

I swallow, trying to think of a way to make it better. “I know I’m a burden to you.”

He half laughs. “You don’t know jack.”

“What I’m saying is, if you want to go back to your”—I hesitate, not knowing what to call it—“unit, you know, that’s fine.”

He eyes me like I’ve said something seriously stupid. Like he can’t even find words.

“My dad just tried to kill me, Talon. He’s not going to care if your leader does it for him, so there’s no point in killing me now. Right?”

He ducks his chin. “Wrong.”

“How do you figure?”

“I thought you said you were smart with politics.”

He’s got me. “Apparently not this kind.”

He shakes his head. “There’s a point in leaving your head for your dad. It tells everyone their precious general is so inept he can’t even keep his own daughter safe. It tells your dad that we aren’t done with him and we aren’t afraid to play hard ball. It tells them all that no matter what General B.’s tried to do, Balenchuk lost this one, and he’ll lose again.”

My lungs flatten. It’s true, all of it. “Psyops.”

He squints. “What did you call it?”

“They called it psychological operations before the Ash. They do all kinds of twisted stuff to break you down and damage you.” There wasn’t much to do in that house by myself all day, and I’d read all of Dad’s books on military strategy. Not that he knew.

His face goes hard. I can almost hear his teeth grind. Did I say something wrong?

“So where are we—have you thought about—”

He pulls his hat down over his eyes. “We’re headed south into the Smoky Mountains.”

“Well, that narrows things down.” How many millions of square miles would that cover?

“We’ll end up near Hartford.”

“Oh.” Still no idea, but I don’t want to piss him off.

We trudge onward, hour after hour, until we come to a river. Or a creek. To me they’re pretty much the same thing. Talon uses a rock to smash a hole through the ice, then cups his hands and takes a long drink. I do the same. The water tastes terrible, like its laced with something hideous, but I’m so thirsty I drink anyway.

We continue onward, staying near the bank and following it, I assume,
 
southward. Talon is so quiet. His face is dark, closed, but occasionally I catch this look of despair, and it makes my gut wrench. Does he think we’re going to die? Or is he sad that his buddies got killed?

Finally the silence is too much even for me. “Aren’t you worried about being a deserter?”

“What do you think?” he snarls.

I’ve got nothing.

His expression pinches. “You don’t get it.
 
Of course you don’t.
 
You grew up rich.
 
You’re still rich.
 
Princess Ilsa.
 
Back home everyone knew who my dad was, what he did. They knew we were trash. Unless I got a scholarship and left for college, I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Yeah, things did tend to work that way. I don’t say anything, not wanting to lead him to things I’d rather not remember.

“Back home, all I had waiting for me was a meth lab and a string of prison sentences.” He says it almost like I’m not even there. “Here? Now? I’m going places. I’m not shit. General Barry respects me, Ilsa. I’m a first lieutenant. Three goddamn years and I’m an officer. A guy like me never would have gone this far in the old life.”

The anguish in his voice says everything. God help me, but I don’t like it that he’s suffering.
 

“I’m sorry.”
 

“Fuck!
 
If I’d never seen you again, life would have been great.
 
Now I’m back to being some nameless piece of shit.”

“Why do you keep helping me when it’s ruining your life?” It’s not like I’m some great prize. He’s not going to get thanks from anyone for this.

He sighs. “It’s not like I have a choice. They blew up the trailer.”

“Yeah, but you could have left me somewhere.
 
Or killed me.”

“I told you I don’t want to kill you. I want to watch you suffer.
 
Or did you miss that part?
 
I own you, and that means I’m responsible for you.”

 
“Thanks, but seriously, Talon, I’m not worth the—”

“I swore I’d take care of you, goddamn it!”

My eyes go blurry, and I hold my eyes open until the moisture dries.

He stalks ahead of me as though he’d like to put as much space between us as he can. I know the feeling. I wait a couple beats and then follow. I step down, and there’s something hard and slick under the snow. My foot goes out from under me and I yelp, and the next thing I know I’m tumbling down the steep embankment toward the creek.

“Talon!”

My head smacks against something hard. Now I’m dazed. I land ass first on the ice, and something gives. There’s a loud
crack
, and then another. The block flips, and I go under.

Immediately I suck in a mouthful of water. I can’t help it. My lungs burn and my body convulses as it tries to expel the liquid, but all that does is cause me to pull in more water.

Frigid knives stab me from all angles, and the weight of my clothes pulls me under. I flail, trying to find something, anything to grab on to, but there’s nothing.

I’m drowning. I know it. My chest feels like it’s going to explode, my skin feels like it’s being flash frozen, and even my hair is on fire. I’m beyond panicked; I’m dying.

Talon dumps me onto the shore face-first and begins pounding my back. At first I just gag, but then I lung-puke buckets of water. And then more. Even when no more water comes up, I can’t stop coughing. And shaking. Shaking like I’ve never shook before.

“Come on, Ilsa! Come on!”

More pressure-pounding, and this time I throw up.

I’m so cold. My fingers are numb, and my limbs are getting there too. As soon as I can take in enough breath, I start crying.

“Oh my God! Ilsa!”

“I thought I was going to die,” I sob.

He flips me over, and it’s not the horror that gets me. Talon’s eyes are watery, and he looks about as frightened as I feel. I reach for him.

He doesn’t disappoint. Pulling me to his chest, he buries his face in my neck, rocks me like I’m a baby, and mutters, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m so cold.” I can hardly get the words out. “I need a cat.”

“What?”

I have no idea. I’m just not right. I’m still crying, or sort of crying. I’m shivering so hard I think I’ll break my spine.

Talon tries to toss me over his shoulder, like he did that other time, but he keeps sliding back down the embankment. I can’t figure out why he doesn’t just find a set of stairs. And why am I lying here?

I try to get up, but my arms and legs are so heavy. It feels like I’m in one of those dreams where you try to run but you just don’t go anywhere. I get as far as onto my hands and knees, but then I sit down again. I’m so tired. It’s hot out here, and I want to take off my coat.
 

But I’m too tired.

The smell of a wood fire always soothes me. Even back before the Ash. My feet are deliciously warm, and I’m cocooned by a large furnace of a body pressed so close to mine that not a piece of me is neglected. Talon’s arms are wrapped around me, my head is tucked under his chin, and one of his legs covers mine.

And what the hell is that smell? Wet dog?

He stirs, causing the wool blanket to scratch against my skin. I’m allergic to wool, but I can’t decide what’s worse—wet-dog-stinky wool or freezing to death.

I don’t want to move. My hair is still wet, my eyes are burning, and my throat is scratchy. Probably from my near-death experience, but still. Staying where it’s warm is the only thing I want. I skim the room, and I discover that Talon has used a half-broken card table to hang my clothes to dry. If they’re anything like my hair, it’ll be a while.

“Ilsa.”

He pulls me tighter. He’s spread his coat under me, protecting my backside from the dirty carpet, and I think I’m wearing his socks.

“Talon?” My throat burns, and I sound like someone tried to saw off my vocal cords.

“You’re awake.” The relief in his voice fills me with wonder.

I tilt my head to look at him, and he adjusts his body so that he’s half beside me, half over me. Except for the socks I’m wearing, I’m as naked as he is.

He smooths the hair back from my face, and my heart breaks a little at the combination of rage and tenderness written in the creases of his skin, the burn of his gaze. “It’s okay,” he says firmly. “You’re going to be all right.”

I think back to those moments in the water, at that point where I thought all hope was gone. “How did you get me out?”

“I grabbed hold of your hair,” he admits. “It was all I could get.”

No wonder my scalp feels tender.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and there is so much guilt and self-loathing in his voice that my throat thickens.

I swallow, then suck in a breath as my eyes tear up. I touch his chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.

All the fear and despair of the last two days that I’ve been pushing down explodes from my gut, and I start wailing like a freakin’ dog. Talon holds me, presses my face to his chest, and lets me get it out. He’s so warm. He’s not ignoring me, or casting sarcastic comments, or looking at me like I’m a knife in his side. He’s holding me. He’s comforting me.

I can’t go on like this. Distrusting him, second-guessing his every move. Hasn’t he proven time and again that he’s the only one left in the world I can depend on? The only one who will come through for me?

Even though he despises everything I stand for, he’s all I’ve got. He’ll never love me. But I also know that if I give myself to him, let him lead me, take care of me—and yes, use me—it’s the only way I’ll survive. It’s the only way I’ll ever be happy.

My breath slows. I’m done with crying. I want it all to go away, and the only thing I can think of to end this is to thank him. To show him I am grateful.

To please him, as he deserves.

My hands rest against his chest, and I let them glide up to his neck. I press my lips to that spot over his heart.

His breath hitches. He grabs my hand, and I don’t fight him. I let him take it like it’s his to do with as he pleases.

Another kiss. Another. His heart quickens.

“You almost died,” he protests.

I kiss him again, tracing the thin line of hair that trails down his chest and stomach. His breath comes hard, fast, and he’s already turgid. I caress him lightly, run my hands down and cup his balls. He moans. His eyes flutter shut.

This is right. This is good. I kiss another spot, this one low on his belly, and his abs flutter in response.

“Ilsa.” It’s a warning. It’s a plea.

I don’t go straight for his penis. Instead, I trace my tongue around his balls, lick them, suck them. The scent of him, the intimacy of the moment drives me crazy.

I slide my tongue up his cock, and I take the head into my mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

He lets me tongue him for several minutes before he tenses, pushes me away, and flips me over onto my back. The intensity of his gaze burns me, but I don’t stop him. Straddling my chest, he strokes himself. He throws his head back and closes his eyes like he’s fighting some sort of battle. His lips pull back in a sort of sneer as he puts the tip of his cock to my lips.