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Chapter 4

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Alina had followed Mal the few steps down the hall to the small bedroom. He stood to the side of the door, allowing her to enter the room. She passed their bag of extra clothing to him before she walked around to the far side of the bed and drew back the covers. As she climbed in, she said quietly, "I'm fine in the dark now. Go ahead and take the light with you."

Mal backed out of the room and turned into the bathroom. He grabbed one of the buckets and set out to the well again, Alina's glow following him like a shadow. His breath puffed in front of him, and in the quiet of the woods his careful footfalls gave off more noise than he would have liked.

Once he'd refilled the bucket, he paused, the container balanced on the edge of the stone well. He dipped a finger in the water experimentally and hissed at the frigid temperature. His eyes flicked to the hovering light next to him. With no actual hope that the glow would heat the water without Alina to instruct it to do so, Mal lifted the bucket anyway, holding it just under the yellow ball. After ten seconds, he pulled away and tested the water again, confirming the temperature was still an uncomfortable level of cold.

Mal set the water down in the dirt roughly, and sat with a grunt, his back against the stone of the well.

She'd slept with Kirigan.

It didn't matter, he told himself sternly. She was her own person, allowed to make her own decisions, and he had no domain over her. Nothing had ever been stated-or even implied. He had never told her how much he cared for her. Wanted her. He tried to reason with himself that while it felt like she had been unfaithful, she'd done nothing of the sort. She wasn't his. Because he had never had the courage to ask. She was allowed to be with any other man she wanted.

He felt a guilty churn in the pit of his stomach as he recalled the moments he'd spent clinging to the stone edifice of the building, watching the passion with which she had kissed the general. The way her fingers dug into his back. He'd stupidly filed away in his mind how much she'd seemed to like it when Kirigan kissed along her clavicle.

Kirigan was tall and handsome. They looked good together.

Without permission, Mal's imagination began to replay the various scenarios he'd created in his mind during the hours of silence riding in the cart earlier that day. While he and Alina had been curled between hay bales, he'd been unable to see her face clearly. He could see her hands, and the curve of her shape. At one point she'd shifted slightly and the fabric of her trousers had been pushed up. Mal had stared miserably at the exposed skin, imagining Kirigan gripping it, hoisting Alina's bare leg up higher to gain a better angle. He imagined their first time. He imagined their second. He imagined her curling around him afterward, her head on the other man's chest in whatever obnoxiously luxurious bed he slept in. He imagined-

Mal closed his eyes and shoved himself up on his knees. He scooped his hands into the bucket, splashing the freezing water onto his face as if he could rinse the painful image from his brain with the water.

There was only one bed tonight.

Mal stood and began to pace around the well. He knew he needed to go back inside, but in his current state he was loathe to do so. After a few laps, he dropped his chin to his chest and leaned forward against the crumbling well wall, bracing himself on outstretched arms. He choked off a groan that he hoped didn't carry to the house in the crisp night air.

He'd turned her down. He'd backed away and—not only that—he'd insulted her.

He needed to get a handle on this. He needed to clamp down on his feelings. If he was going to survive the night, this was not allowed to happen. He couldn't afford to have meltdowns to this degree, ragged breaths barely controlled while he hid from her outside. He needed to be able to protect her, make decisions, navigate through the woods; he needed to be able to function.

He was not functional right now.

The rational part of his brain understood that sometimes emotional release was necessary. Keeping things bottled up was a great way to snap at an inopportune moment in the future, and he couldn't afford to do that.
He wished there was a bare-knuckle fight in a tavern he could throw himself into. Bleed off some energy and stress by fighting someone whose name he didn't even know.

As long as he was washing up, he reasoned, he could wallow in it. He gave himself the length of time he remained with the water to feel the full weight of things, but when he went back inside, he vowed, he'd be done. Enough.

He swallowed, and pulled his shirt off over his head. It wasn't much warmer inside, and the faster he cleaned up, the faster this would be over. He scrubbed at his arms and chest with his hands, trying to ignore the way he shivered in the cold as he let his memories play.

Alina's face as he ran his fingers through her hair as she sat in the tub.

The feel of her breath on his face as her lips ghosted along the corner of his mouth.

Mal balled up a fist and drew his hand back, faltering and wincing as he shook with tension, torn between self-preservation and the desire to follow through with the punch. He finally placed his fist, with no force behind it, against the stones of the well in front of him, pressing firmly. He imagined punching forward with all his strength. He'd break his hand, undoubtedly.

And he needed to be functional.

The ache in his chest was truly infuriating, and his growing agitation didn't show any signs of abating.

He swung his head to the side and pressed his forehead into his upper arm, allowing the savage burn of his miserable longing to wash over him along with the cold.

He'd loved her from afar for so long, but it wasn't like he'd been pining for her monastically; he'd been with other women. The reason none of those women had made an impression or remained with him for longer than a single night, however, was Alina. None of them were her. None of them measured up.

And, in an unbalanced, unfair stroke of luck, Mal had never had to see her with anyone else before this. Had she ever been with anyone other than Kirigan?

Mal swore and scuffed his shoe in the dirt.

She wasn't his to have.

But she shouldn't have been Kirigan's either.

The way the general had lifted Alina onto the table in one smooth movement, the way she'd looked into his eyes, the way his hands on her body had made her smile.

Mal couldn't remember the last time he'd made her smile like that.

…had he ever?

As the cold made Mal's shivering worse, he tried to quell the hollow bitterness in his stomach.

He hadn't been able to stop her from going through the Fold with him. He hadn't been able to keep the Grisha from kidnapping her. But he could keep her from becoming a slave to the second army and Kirigan. He could tangibly save her from something this time.

Counting to ten, Mal took slow, deep breaths, and reached for his shirt. He refilled the bucket with fresh water, and trudged back toward the small house.

Mal slipped as quietly as he could into the bedroom. Alina was curled up, facing away from him, the dampness of her hair still giving the illusion of a dark color in the dim light. He wondered whether the blonde would be a shock in the light of day tomorrow.

Mal grabbed the bag that held their changes of clothing and pulled out a new shirt. He slipped into it, and as he lifted the covers to slide into the bed beside Alina he felt simultaneous pangs of terror and elation.

He mirrored her, curling on his side, facing away from her. His heart still pounding, he closed his eyes and prayed for sleep as the ball of light beside him slowly dimmed to nothingness.

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