A loose, lightly woven shirt now hung over his torso, the thin fabric darkened by rain and clinging faintly to his skin. His previously bared shoulders were damp. His black hair hung around his ears, droplets sliding down the strands to trace the sharp planes of his cheeks. He peered down at Elle.
“Have you cooled down now?” he asked quietly, tone more flat than mocking.
Elle compressed her lips into a thin, quivering line. She was wet from head to toe, arms still tied painfully behind her. In her chest, anger and humiliation fought for dominance, but she forced herself to keep it together.
“Untie me,” she commanded. “Let me go.”
He arched a brow, unmoved by her plight. “Perhaps you need more time to cool off.”
“Stop!” she snarled, lungs aching. “Help me. Please.”
His lips curved in a small smile, and with little apparent effort, he hauled her prone figure up by the back of her neck. She yelped, limbs thrashing, but he simply dumped her onto the sand a moment later. A small grunt escaped her as she hit the ground, the wet grains clinging to her soaked clothing.
Leaving her there, he strolled to his camp. A small fire crackled beneath it, pushing back some of the afternoon’s gloom. The entire area was only a few yards away from the shallow pit, but without the use of her arms or legs, it may as well have been miles. Elle was forced to inch forward on her side, wriggling like a caterpillar through the shifting sand.
She drew ragged breaths, half from exertion, half from rage. A single glance told her he was watching, amused, while stitching a tear in his cloak.
Monster, she thought savagely. But she refused to plead for assistance. Better to suffer in silence than give him that satisfaction.
It took long, grueling moments to reach the tarp’s edge. At last, she managed to crawl under the minimal protection from the rain, chest heaving. Rain continued to pound the beach, but at least here the downpour was a soft drumming on canvas instead of a relentless barrage on her skin. Flopping onto her side, Elle shot the man a fierce glare.
“Your name,” she demanded.
He tilted his head, a slight, curious smile on his lips. She found she despised that smile more than any scowl.
She pressed on, annoyance twisting her expression. “I am Elle,” she said bluntly, “and you are?”
He gave no answer, turning his attention back to the needle and thread in his hand.
Her stomach clenched with frustration.
“I see,” Elle said with all the scornful sarcasm she could muster in the moment. “I’ll just call you ‘You.’ It suits a nameless coward.”
A faint spark kindled in his eyes, but he offered neither protest nor assent. She refused to let him have the silence.
“It’s not surprising,” she continued, voice layered with bitterness. “Abandoning a name, abandoning any sense of pride, fits a lowly traitor like you.”
He paused mid-stitch, dagger in his other hand as he swiftly sliced stray threads. “And what, precisely, am I?” he asked softly, the steel glinting in the campfire’s light.
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Elle’s eyes flicked to the dagger, recalling all too well how swiftly he had disarmed and restrained her. Anger rose anew. “Deceiver,” she spat, shifting onto her knees with some difficulty. “Betrayer. Low-life rat. That’s what you are.”
A bag to the side of him rested limply where a hand was fishing for something. He raised the apple up against the sharp end of the dagger and then began peeling casually. The skin curled in loops of ribbons. The ends of the dagger stabbed into one of the cut ends, lifting it to his mouth as his teeth bit into the cut wedge. The act was deceptively casual, yet somehow menacing.
“Do you know what you are?” he asked once he’d swallowed. “A princess without a throne, without authority. You live by my charity now.”
Her jaw clenched, tears of fury threatening at the corners of her eyes. She hated feeling so helpless. “I am a princess,” she ground out, “and that doesn’t mean you get to take whatever you want! You started this!”
A flicker in his gaze, something that might have been weariness or mild surprise, passed too quickly to read. He shrugged, setting aside the fruit. For an instant, the only sounds were the rain pattering on the tarp and the low hiss of the small fire.
Her fingers clenched and unclenched behind her back, ropes scraping her wrists. Useless, she thought grimly. She could do nothing to free herself, nothing to fight him off. She had no illusions that her rank would mean anything here, in the middle of some unnamed shore, at the mercy of a half–dark elf whose motives she couldn’t begin to guess.
After a moment, he spoke, voice turning a touch quieter. “Indeed,” he acknowledged. “You are a princess. Somewhere far away from your court. If you wish to survive, best adapt.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, rage and frustration churning. Yet behind that, a tiny ember of fear flared—what if he was right? With no allies in sight, no water or provisions except what he allowed, she was vulnerable, reliant on a man who bound and humiliated her.
In the silence that followed, the waves crashed distantly, the tide creeping over footprints and washing away the evidence of their struggle. Rain continued to beat the canvas overhead. She met his gaze unyieldingly.
He continued peeling the apple with meticulous slowness, the thin curls of bright fruit skin dropping at his feet. From her vantage on the sand, wrists chafing against the rope around her back, Elle found herself hating the care in his movements, each smooth, unhurried flick of his dagger was an insult. Finally, with all the pent-up frustration burning in her chest, she exhaled a harsh breath and locked eyes with him.
“Tell me your name,” she demanded, voice taut. “I don’t want to call you ‘you.’”
Her pride fought the word on her tongue, but she forced it out anyway. “Please.”
He took another crisp bite from the apple, chewing slowly, gaze flicking across her face. For a moment, he said nothing, and she had the odd sense that he was weighing her temper or testing her resolve. A chill slid down her spine at the unreadable coldness in his jade-green eyes flecked with gold.
At last, he stood, towering over her, causing her to tilt her head back to keep him in sight. Rainwater slid across his loose shirt, tracing planes of muscle beneath the damp fabric. “You may call me Ashra.”
Elle opened her mouth to respond, but the words never surfaced. He stuffed half of the peeled apple between her lips in one smooth motion, muffling any protest. The tangy taste flooded her senses, and she bit down reflexively, confusion lighting her eyes.
He brushed past her without so much as a backward glance. “I’m going for a swim,” he remarked, voice aloof. “You can try to run—” Here, he paused, letting the threat hang in the air. “But if you do, I’ll have to break one of your ankles when I catch you. Remember that.”
Her breath stuttered, and she stared at her bound legs, the soggy ropes crisscrossing her ankles. She couldn’t even walk in her current state, let alone sprint across the beach. She tried to speak, to fling an angry retort or demand at his retreating back, but the words came out garbled around the wedge of fruit. Heart pounding, she spat out the chunk of apple, glaring at his distant silhouette. He was already stepping away from the shelter, heading toward the shoreline, shoulders relaxed as if he had no care in the world.
Elle swallowed hard, blinking away rain that clung to her lashes. She could taste the sweet, sharp tang of apple juice on her tongue. The pit where she lay was no less miserable, and now she had a choice: remain where he’d left her or attempt some impossible shuffle toward freedom. But his ominous parting words rang in her ears, and she knew he’d shown he would keep his threats if pushed.
She fumed silently, wiping her mouth against her shoulder, forcing down the mix of anger and helplessness.
Ashra.
Elle repeated the name in her head, committing every syllable to memory. She would remember him, and every slight he inflicted. Sooner or later, she vowed, she would make him regret turning his back on her.