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"Vitsa?" Nikolai breathed. He tensed, readying himself for whatever she was going to do.
And only found the knife biting into his skin. "I said don't move!" Vitsa said fiercely, although obviously trying to keep her voice down. "Are you daft?"
I'm melancholy, not daft. "Get this knife off of my throat," he growled.
"And let you sound the alarm? I don't think so."
"May I point out that there would not be an alarm to sound if you were not at present holding sharpened steel uncomfortably close to my jugular? And, follow up question, if I may, why are you threatening me?"
"Because I need you to do something for me," she responded angrily, clearly unhappy that she needed his help.
Nikolai rolled his eyes, then remembered she couldn't see him. "A word of advice: I respond better to the carrot than the stick."
"Can you not be serious for one bloody second?" she hissed. She was so close, he could feel her breath on his face.
In this moment he felt very much like some animal pinned to the ground by a snarling lion. She was fierce, unafraid, and clearly motivated by whatever it was she needed his help with. The silence stretched on, with the knife growing warm against his neck. She wasn't going to hurt him; she needed him.
"Get off me and we can negotiate. That is my only offer," Nikolai said firmly.
She hesitated, and he felt the pressure of the knife lift slightly. In a flash of movement, he grabbed her wrist with his left hand and got his feet under her stomach. Using his feet, he launched her off of him. She landed on her back, still clutching the knife. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but he had enough time to hold her down with her own hand holding the knife against her throat before she could catch her breath. She gaped like a fish, having had knocked the wind out of her.
"Don't ever pull a stunt like that again, wench. Do you understand?" He said it coolly, but rage was coursing through his veins. "Do you know what happens to people who threaten me? I let them live just long enough for me to see regret on their face, and then I kill them."
Her breath was starting to come back now, and she wheezed heavily.
"You know, I am a bit insulted that you underestimated me so greatly," he continued. "Perhaps it's because I'm your Tsar. Well let me tell you something else. I am a man who wears a lot of hats. Both in the metaphorical and literal sense. I like feathers, by the way. Anyway, ah no, please hold on just one moment, I'm not done…" She had started to struggle, digging her fingernails into his hands, which were held at her throat. He gently placed his thumb and forefinger into the groove where the wrist met the hand. He squeezed sharply.
"Stop!" she gasped.
"Are you going to listen?" he asked.
"Yes!"
He released the pressure, but kept his fingers on her wrist. "So as I was saying, I am the King of Ravka, but I am also a ruthless privateer. Can you guess which one comes out to play when things get a little… rocky?"
"You're crazy," Vitsa said vehemently. "This kingdom is going to fall into squalor with you in charge."
He cocked his head to the side. "And yet… it hasn't. Nor is it in the process of doing so." He decided then was a good time to stand. He wrenched the knife from her hand. She scrambled back into the flimsy wall of the tent.
Dusting his hands off, he pulled the torch from the ground beside his bed. He rummaged around in his coat for a flint, feeling Vitsa's eyes on him the whole time. After lighting it, he stabbed it back into the ground and sat on his blanket. Vitsa was to his right, poised to run or fight—he wasn't sure. He suddenly felt exhausted.
"For Saints sake, come sit down. You must be hungry. Alina would have my head if I let you starve."
The Dikari had left a tray of bread and dried venison for him. It was near the entrance of the tent. He nodded his head at it. She regarded him warily.
"This is some kind of trick."
"I assure you, it's not. I can't very well kill you when Alina asked me to look out for you. But as I said, do not ever threaten me like that again."
She crossed to the food and took a piece of bread. Coming to sit closer to the torch, she watched him the whole time. She sat across from him, keeping her distance. The torch crackled softly between them, but although he was tired, Nikolai still burned with anger at his insolent charge. Who did she think she was?
"So what is it that you need my help with? Did your little caper in the woods not go so well? How far did you get in the span of a few hours anyway?"
She glared at him, and the firelight made her eyes look like pools of liquid. Her hair was even messier than before, if that was possible, and it too glowed in the light. "I need to go somewhere."
"And?"
"I can't get there on foot."
"So you need a ship?" Nikolai deduced.
"Yes."
Already he was intrigued at the thought of a new adventure. He couldn't resist. The King in him recognised that it was irresponsible, but Sturmhond would not be silenced. And Alina would be happy to hear the lengths he had gone to to help Vitsa.
"Well obviously the Penguin is not exactly in tip-top shape. We would have to return to Os Alta to get another one ready. We may be there for several days. Either way, I have to get Tamar to better medical care." He glowered as he imagined her lying in her tent near death. Please make it through, Tamar.
Vitsa bit her lip unhappily. He knew she would not want to be cooped up in the palace. It was a question of how long she wanted to wait before she was free of him. Obviously she needed his help to get wherever she needed to go, otherwise she would not have come back.
"Where are we going, by the way?"
Again she drilled into him with her eyes, "You'll find out."
"Yes. Right now. Tell me," he said with quiet authority. He raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her.
"I don't take orders from you."
"At the moment, yes, you do. But fine. You want to be little miss secretive, you go right ahead. I like a little mystery."
She looked taken aback at his submission. Good. Keep her guessing. Let her think she was in charge.
"So first, we get back to Os Alta, "she said slowly.
"Yes."
"How long will it take you to get a ship outfitted?"
"Three days at the least. A week at most."
"How do I know you aren't just going to lock me in a room once we get there?" She flicked her hair out of her eyes, as if only noticing it then.
"You don't." He grinned at her. "Isn't this fun? I love a good power struggle."
She curled her lip at him. "I still hate you."
"I'm aware."
Seeming satisfied with the plan, she drew up her knees and rested her arms and head on them. She finally took her eyes off his face, and he felt something fade away, like a current that had been flowing through him had stopped. Her eyes traveled around the tent, until they landed on one spot and locked. He looked down to see what she was staring at.
The scars. He had taken his gloves off to sleep. The black skin looked bruised and singed, a reminder of what Merzost had turned him into. The rumor was that he had been tortured by the Darkling, which was true in a sense. But in reality, the scars were from four inch talons sprouting from his fingers tips, and veins of darkness lacing their way up his arms. He shuddered involuntarily. Vitsa looked away sharply.
He snatched his gloves up off the ground and thrust his hands into them.
Vitsa opened her mouth to speak. "What—"
"Not up for discussion."
She glared and ate her bread in silence. When she finished, she asked, "Will your friend be okay?"
"I don't know," he replied brusquely.
"I'm sorry."
"A lot of good that does."
She stood abruptly. When she looked down at him, her anger had returned. "You are no King. And you are not some great Captain. You are a lunatic who can't decide who he is from one day to the next. The sooner I get away from you, the better."
He smiled up at her. "No one's stopping you, darling. You want to run away again? See how that works out for you?"
"Ugh!" She whirled around and flung the tent flaps open. She was gone in a heartbeat.