Page 43 of The Barbarian King's Assassin (Magic and Kings 1)

“Don’t encourage them. They’ve been stifling me since the whole assassination thing started.”

“They apparently like you.” I made a moue of distaste. Mostly because I did as well and didn’t understand why.

“But you don’t. You tried to maim me,” he accused.

“Because you were smothering me.”

“Cuddling, my little Yanna.”

“I don’t cuddle.”

The king sighed and flopped back in the bed. “This is not going to be a pleasant day.”

He was right.

It rained.

All day.

And the cloak someone dug out of a pack for me did little to stop the moisture. By afternoon, I was a shivering, miserable mess who said nothing when the Barbarian dragged me off my horse and tugged me under his cloak where it was somehow warm and dry—until I ruined it.

“Your shirt is wet,” I mumbled from inside the cocoon.

“I’ll live.” His wry reply.

Snug and lulled by the rocking motion of the horse, I fell asleep against him. This time when I woke in a circle of his arms, I didn’t try and injure his manhood, but only because he murmured, “We’re at the inn. Are you hungry?”

Yes.

I ate then luxuriated in the warm bath he had brought to the room for me. I’d yet to figure out why he was being nice. As his hired bodyguard, he shouldn’t have been treating me like…

Like his lover. Except we weren’t having sex. But to anyone watching us—

I marched down the stairs, the dress I’d tossed on clinging to my wet flesh. My bare feet slapped the floor as I marched to the table where he drank with his horde.

“Stop treating me like your whore.” I jabbed a finger at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you were my whore, you’d be naked in bed, sleeping off an orgasm.”

I gaped at him. He offered me a grin that curled my toes.

The horde guffawed.

My jaw tightened. “The way you treat me, people are going to think I am your mistress.”

“And?”

“Word will get around.”

“Don’t worry. I doubt the zariina will get jealous.”

“More like you don’t want my master to find out,” I muttered. Jrijori wouldn’t like it. He’d killed the first boy to break my heart. Which was ironic because once I’d dried my tears, I’d planned to do the same.

“No one thinks you’re my mistress. Do you?” he asked his people.

Most stared at me then him, at a clear loss for words. At his deepening scowl, which matched mine, they hurried to reassure.

“Nope.”