My heart stutters a little at that. So that’s how he learned I wasn’t eating. I assumed that he’d somehow gotten the information from my guards, but it was Zara who informed him.

“I’m sorry I kept it from you,” she adds—not that she sounds sorry.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask her. I don’t think I’m hurt, but … I can’t say what I’m feeling, knowing my friend was secretly passing along information to War.

“He asked me not to,” she says.

“But I’m your friend.”

“He forced my loyalty the day he saved Mamoon.”

I remember. I just never assumed he would make use of that loyalty.

Zara’s gaze goes to my tent. “Here, let me help you with your things.”

Normally, I’d turn down her offer, but I’m still feeling massively fatigued, and my nausea has returned. I’ll take all the help I can get.

The two of us gather up my few items, only leaving the coffee set behind. We fit most of my belongings into my canvas bag, which I then sling over my shoulder.

“You better come visit me,” Zara says.

I scoff at her. “Like I have anything better to do.”

She gives me a look that says, I wasn’t born yesterday. “I can think of one activity you might prefer over me …”

The two of us break into laughter, and I give her a playful shove. “Zara!”

“What? Don’t act like it’s not true.”

We snicker a little longer.

Eventually, Zara’s face smooths. “Seriously though, Miriam, get better. And one piece of friendly relationship advice: if you truly like the guy, try not to kill him again.”

I don’t end up seeing War until later that evening. He comes striding into the tent, looking just as imposing as he’s always been. My heart speeds. I still haven’t gotten used to being around him again.

His gaze immediately finds mine. “Wife.” His eyes heat. “I cannot tell you what it does to me, seeing you in our tent. It drove me mad, living here without you.”

I set aside the arrow I’ve nearly completed, when War closes the distance and captures my face, taking my mouth in his. He kisses me with his usual ferocity, and I melt into the embrace.

His hands skim down my sides, and yes, yes, yes. I’ve wanted to feel War against me every single day since we’ve been apart. Even when my anger burned red hot.

My hands go to his shirt, fumbling to get it off. His own hands slide under the hem of mine, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.

It’s all happening just as I hoped it would, when suddenly, he stops. His hands withdraw, and I want to cry out.

“You’re sick.” He says it like he’s just now remembering himself. He doesn’t, however, mention finding me a doctor again. I’d bet my romance book that there is no doctor, at least not here at camp.

I shake my head, even though I do feel a little nauseous. With each touch of his, desire is eclipsing my sickness.

“If you aren’t inside me in the next five minutes, I’m going to be threatening you with another sword,” I say.

War’s violent eyes crinkle with mirth, and he kisses me again—albeit, a bit hesitantly.

“There is something you should know, wife,” he says, pulling away. “In all my years, there’s only one aspect of love—”

My breath catches on that word.

“—that I’ve ever really known,” he continues. “And that’s longing. That’s all that the battlefield has to offer—a longing so deep it has a presence of its own. Love is a hope that carries men through dark nights, but it’s nothing more than that.”

My brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“When we were apart, that’s what I felt. Longing. It was as familiar a sensation to me as swinging my sword,” he says. “I hated my empty bed and my lonely tent, but it’s what I’ve always known. It’s being with you that’s something new, something I want but don’t understand.”

I think this is an apology and an explanation for why he stayed away, though I can’t be sure. War’s words make my stomach churn uncomfortably and my breaths come faster and faster.

“Love is more than longing,” I say quietly.

It’s far, far more than that.

His hand tightens against me. “I am not a man of words, wife. I am a man of action.”

I wait for him to continue, still not sure where he’s going with this.

“If you want me to believe you—then show me.”

Oh.

Well, shit.

How am I supposed to show War what love is when I don’t even know what it is I do feel for him?

But then I remember what prompted this entire exchange—the fact that I wanted to get in his pants despite being sick. I’m definitely well enough for a bit of sex, and if showing him love is his one stipulation …

I can give it a try. You know, all in the name of make-up sex.

Swallowing down my nerves, I take his hand and lead him to his pallet. Outside, I hear the torches hiss and pop, and in the distance, someone laughs. But it all seems so very removed from this moment.

I reach up for War’s shoulders and push him down onto the bed. He watches me as he lowers himself, letting me take the lead.

I follow him down, maneuvering myself so I’m straddling his waist. I lean over War and I stare into his eyes and remember every good thing he has ever done—from saving Zara’s nephew to not raising the dead that one time. I remember all those instances where he saved my own life, and how today he came for me when I was sick.

I stare into those violent eyes until I see them thaw. And now I run my hands over the planes of his face, my thumbs dragging over his kohl-lined eyes until the black makeup is smudged. Leaning down, I kiss him—softly first, but then gradually harder and deeper.

I don’t know if I’m doing this right. I don’t really know how to show the horseman love when love isn’t really sex. But it’s the best I got at the moment.

As I move over him, I feel the hard planes of his physique, each curve still new and wondrous to me. There’s a giddy flutter low in my belly, and it scares the shit out of me.

My eyes flick back to War’s. He’s watching me, enraptured.

I pull my shirt off, then my bra, leaning back down to trail kisses over his bare torso.

“Take off the rest,” I whisper to him.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Whatever I’m doing has lit a fire in his eyes. He flips us around and pulls the rest of our clothes off before draping himself back over my body.

The horseman’s hand slips down between my legs, and he begins to touch me until I’m moaning and grinding against his palm, and he’s whispering wife over and over again beneath his breath.

This is safe territory. We’ve done this dozens of times. This isn’t love, it’s plain and simple desire. And even though I’m supposed to be showing War love, this is much more comfortable and familiar.

He leans over me, his eyes intense, and I touch his cheek, even as his fingers work in and out of me.

The warlord’s breathing heavily, and he’s rock hard and ready. He looks at me like he’s about to ask, What’s next?