After the cooking fires had burned low and no one needed lamps or torches lit, Ciaran was finally allowed to stumble toward the trees to find a soft patch of grass to rest his head.
He paused at the tree line, scanning his surroundings for the safest spot possible, and then Brenna breathed in his ear, pressed warm against his back,
“Your bedroll is this way.”
Ciaran jumped, hand going for his sword, but he knew it was futile. Had she been an enemy, he’d already be dead.
“I can’t decide if I hate you or want to marry you.”
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