They flew until the sun started to set. Chalia found a lake set between two small peaks on the very edge of the mountains. The peaks were dusted with snow, but the grass around the lake was a deep emerald green. The trees here were shorter, their leaves sharp and pointed like needles.
Sofia slipped from Chalia’s back, and Fox followed, eyes drawn to the lake’s surface, the colors afire with the setting sun. It was beautiful. His eyes slipped over to Sofia, but before he could open his mouth, she was on him. She kicked at his legs, jamming her fist into his side, and with a grunt, he fell to his knees. A second later, she knocked him over, bringing him to the ground. She straddled him, his own dagger held firm to his throat. Well, at least she’d cleaned it of Belni’s blood.
“Miss me, my captor?”
“Whose side are you on?” she hissed, pressing the dagger until he felt the sting of broken skin.
He swallowed, and her eyes watched his throat, pupils blown wide. He smiled.
“Stop smiling,” she snapped.
“You know whose side I’m on.”
“You let that soldier get away,” she said. “You’re after the dragons onbehalf of the chief commander, and you didn’t even let the resistance know.”
His smile dropped, and he looked at her, trying to understand. “I thought that since you were here, she’d told you.”
“She?”
“Eha, the dragon Harlow has imprisoned. I told her to tell you.”
Sofia’s grip on the dagger loosened, and a flicker of regret crossed her face.
“I…didn’t know you were the one to tell her.”
“So, you saw her. Is she free?” His eyes scanned the sky above them, as if the white dragon might come sailing from the thin clouds that had hovered over the lake. When his eyes wandered back to Sofia, her face was pale, lips pinched in pain.
“No, she’s still with him.”
“You saw her—that means you were in Harlow’s base.”
“He captured me briefly. It was fine.”
Fox narrowed his eyes. She studied the grass behind his head with sudden interest.
The ground was hard beneath him as he canted his hips, throwing her sideways. The dagger was warm from her hand as he twisted it, pulling it from her grip. A second later, their positions were reversed, and he was looking down at her, the dagger held loosely in his left hand.
He hated the look of genuine fear that flickered in her eyes before she shuttered her expression.
He reached out, ignoring the flinch as he brushed a curl from her face, studying her.
“Did he hurt you?”
“I told you, it was fine.”
He traced the barest hint of a bruise forming across her chin, the muscles in his jaw jumping.
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“We fought. I’m still alive. So is he.”
Her voice was tight. There was something she was holding back. His chest ached with the knowledge, but as with everything with her, he knew he couldn’t take it unwillingly.
He pushed himself from her, taking a step back so she could follow suit. She ignored his offered hand, standing and brushing off her clothes.
“I missed you.” He whispered the words, as if speaking them too loudly might break something.
“Don’t,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I still don’t trust you.”