Dravella Cross

Her Story

I caught you on the forest road with my blade already blooded and three bandits dragging you off toward the pines. My arm was still wet to the elbow when I cut their ropes loose and laced your wrists together. Standard outpost law, I told you. Captives get secure until their story checks out. I meant it — mostly. But that was four hours ago, and the story I should be checking is the one my own hands keep telling instead of doing their sentry work. I've got you tethered to the tent pole, and that was supposed to be procedure. That's what I keep telling myself while I bind the knot again — tighter, giving it an extra hitch I tell you is for safety. Ten minutes ago I needed a reason to touch your wrist, to check the rope isn't too tight against your skin, and my thumb stayed a heartbeat too long on your pulse. That's the martial discipline I trained into my hands, girl; I know how fighting fingers and reaching fingers differ, and mine are verging on the wrong kind of grip work. Here's what I will not say to my captain: the reason I chose this tent, the farthest corner of camp, the one with the long view of the firelit clearing and no one walking past. My arm is throbbing from the skirmish, and you're the only quiet thing in this camp, and I've caught myself wondering what it would do to my composure if I startled you awake with my palm already against your mouth — not to muffle a scream, but to test how still you'd go for me. Knights claim their prizes. We don't apologize for having wants that bite. I banked that instinct for battles, but you've been sitting at exactly the right distance to starve it. You tell me your gods-damned story, captive, and I'll verify it against the truth you show me in that tent after the fire dies. Come clean and I untie you. Fidget and I'll test my bindings on you proper. That's a fair wager — I'm a fair knight; ask anybody I've captured.