Baring the Thorn (The Mountain Tribe #3)

Chapter 7

Samara

W e walk well into the afternoon, our conversation picking up sometimes and dropping off others, with the peaks and lulls of our energy during the ample exercise.

But when it’s silent, it’s not awkward.

Rather the opposite, it feels comfortable, normal. It feels like the tentative understanding, the companionship of me working long shifts with other nurses, looking up from our holo-charts to share a beleaguered smile.

Thorn and I do the same every time we rest to catch our breath.

I find that I actually enjoy Thorn’s company, that, with the camp, and our jobs, behind us, he’s not as much of a bossy, grumpy, asshole as I thought.

But I also have the feeling that he’s on his best behavior, and though I worry it’s an act, I’m glad that he’s putting in the effort to make this trip as pleasant as possible.

I’m even more grateful to him when he stops at a hot spring in the early evening, grinning as he presents it to me as a surprise.

I’m so happy that I want to throw myself in his arms, but think better of it and in the end, I just gush over how warm the water looks.

Thorn sets up a fire nearby and spreads out our furs for the night, then he works on skinning a rabbit that he caught today during our walk.

After almost two full days of eating dried meat and roots, I’m looking forward to fresh meat so much that I almost rush my bath.

Almost.

It hasn’t been that long since my last one, certainly not when I compare the time to my first week in the future, but the trip so far has been more exercise than I’ve ever had in my life, even counting full twelve hour shifts in emergency, and it’s nice to get a chance to wash the sweat off.

I clean my clothes first, scrubbing away any dirt on the inside or outside of the leather and then leaving them to dry on the rocks while I bathe myself.

I sink into the warm, milky waters of the hot spring and sigh when I feel my muscles begin to release tension like the gently moving current is massaging them.

There’s much speculation amongst the women about where all these hot springs come from, but I don’t believe one theory over another.

I’m just happy that we don’t have to bathe in the frigid lake.

So, I float for a while in the water, not worrying that Thorn will look because it would never occur to his people to spy on a naked woman, and simply enjoying my luck that this difficult future has at least one bright side.

Even in my apartment, warm water was scarce, and all buildings had a timer for showers that would promptly cut the stream off, sometimes with my hair still soapy. If my shower wasn’t cut short, it would turn cold quickly, yet the springs stay warm and steaming all year round, no matter what.

I relax in the water until my clothing is nearly dried, and then pull it on over wet skin and return to the fire.

My curls will take at least all night to dry, so I sit on the fur beds and work on detangling them while Thorn excuses himself to bathe.

The sun begins to set behind the line of trees that seem to reach as high as skyscrapers around me, and the shadows in the woods turn long and deep, moving like living beings.

He returns from his bath before I realize how much time has passed, staring into the bright fire as I comb my fingers through my wet hair.

I look up, my mouth opened to say something, maybe about the snap of cold in the air or a rustle I heard nearby of some small mammal, but all thought flees my mind the second I see him.

Thorn walks into the camp barefoot, wearing nothing except his leather breeches, which hang low on his angular hips.

Everywhere else he is dripping wet, stunningly tanned, and breathtakingly strong.

His chest is a thick band of muscle, tapering into a slim waist hugged by his leathers. His arms and shoulders, now bared, appear even broader than before, lined with scars and thin hair that catches the setting sun like amber. Every glorious inch of him is peppered with freckles.

My mouth dry, I bring my eyes up from the teasing trail of dark auburn hair across his chest, that trails down to disappear beneath his leathers, and look at his face.

His hair hangs in wet curls, pushed back off his forehead as though he swept it back with his hands to dry, creating a wet path down the back of his neck.

He’s shaved, too, his jaw line strong and wide, his lips only accentuated by the lack of beard.

His gaze catches mine and won’t let go.

Thorn is power and masculinity and capability, yet it’s the softer features, the gentled ones, that seem to move me more.

Like the freckles, small, the color of ochre, insignificant on their own yet meaningful together, like tiny shimmering stars in a dark sky. Or the fullness of that lower lip, so much softer than it’s hardened partner. Or, strangely, his collarbones, like delicate branches beneath his skin.

I want to put my lips to the dip between them, where I know I would feel a pulse just as strong, just as steady and unwavering, as he is.

Is he doing this on purpose?

The thought comes to me belatedly, my brain slow and foggy.

Is this some way of showing off, of trying to seduce me with all that bared skin?

He’s positively covered in scars, big long gashes and small faint scabs and perhaps even the indents of an animal’s teeth at his forearm, yet the sight of him nearly nude only proves the opposite; that he is a human being, just like me. That he is a man - unlike any I’ve met before - but still a man.

A man that I could kiss, or touch, a man that I want to see driving between my thighs, his expression taut with bliss.

I could have met him in a bar, grinning sardonically over a drink, and perhaps he would have put his hand on the small of my back to lead me out to a cab.

We could have been matched together on any number of dating apps, meeting in a park, his long legs crossed at the ankles while he waited on a bench, the flickering green of the holographic trees catching in his hazel eyes.

I would have felt the same, I realize, no matter what circumstance Thorn and I could have met in.

My heart would have dropped as it does now, my stomach flipping with longing, with nerves, with the fight inside of me between what I want and what I should know better than to want.

The truth is that I want him, no matter what.

And the more I watch him now, my head filling with all the filthy things that I could do to this captivating, infuriating man, the reasons that I should stay away seem less important.

“You are staring, Samara,” Thorn remarks.

His expression is unreadable, but… God.

I glance down and see that he’s hard, that this prolonged silence, where I gazed at him like a woman starved, has turned him on.

The length would be impressive alone, but Thorn - what I can make out through his leathers - looks to be as thick as my wrist.

I release a hard breath, imagine taking all that size, the slight sting mixing with the pleasure, and I’m so wet that I can feel it against the inside of my thighs.

I drag my eyes back to his face, and stumble over my words. “I…Um… Is that a bite on your arm?”

Thorn appears shocked by my question. Hell, I am too.

I pulled it out of thin air, scrambling for something to talk about besides my gape-jawed staring.

He glances at his forearm. “Yes, it is. A wolf.”

“A wolf,” I echo.

How had I just imagined this man in a bar? I swallow thickly and turn to face the fire. A shaky laugh bubbles out of me.

“Why do you laugh?” Thorn drops down on the other side of the fire, pulling his boots on and shaking his wet hair around, not unlike a dog.

I feel the need to laugh hysterically at this absurd situation, yet the reality of it makes a dizzying wave of dread go through me.

I thrust myself up to my feet, needing to put this awful energy somewhere, fighting the need to turn and run into the forest to exhaust myself of this coursing panic.

“Why did you bring me?” I demand.

Thorn looks surprised at my tone. “It is the… duty of a leader to provide. You needed a guide through the woods, so I offered.”

“No, that’s bullshit,” I interrupt, and I raise my chin to glare at him over the fire. Anger is safe, annoyance is comfortable, attraction is a terrifying black hole. Checking out his half naked body would be like flinging myself into that unfamiliar darkness. “You didn’t offer- you insisted. Why? Why you?”

There is a pause, and he lets out a little breath. “We do not need to discuss this.”

“Why, Thorn? You insisted it had to be you. You practically threatened the hunters not to offer, you left me no fucking choice! Why? It’s a simple question, so I don’t see how-”

Now it’s his turn to cut me off, “There is nothing simple about it!”

Thorn leaps to his feet.

And he’s shouting too, either to speak over my shaky rant or because I’ve finally pushed him to his limit. His eyes burn far brighter, far fiercer, than the fire that lights up his tanned face in red and gold splashes of color.

My heart pounds in my throat, at the base, where just moments ago I had wanted to kiss him.

What the hell could he possibly mean, anyways?

As if he’s read my mind, Thorn begins, “There is nothing simple about any of this. You… erupted into the camp, the tribe, into my life like a wildfire. Everything changed when you arrived, and suddenly I was thrust into caring for seven new females. And you were the worst of them. You told me what to do, where to set up their beds and how to feed them, you told me that my healer was useless, and that our ways of living were wrong. You razed my world down to nothing, Samara. You fought with me on everything. And yet…every night since you arrived, I have lain awake, aching for you.”

The breath rushes from my lungs, taking with it all the anger.

All that time…

A whole month of me bickering and hounding and nagging him about every little part of camp life because I wanted the best for the girls and because it made me feel like I was in control of this fucked up situation, and he wanted me all that time?

It seems so impossible… But he wasn’t alone.

I would stomp up to him with a new bone to pick, only to feel my heart racing when he’d turn the full force of those intense moss green eyes on me.

I could hide my feelings well, but I would never have thought that Thorn was as good a liar as me.

It’s a troubling thought.

“You infuriate me, little healer,” Thorn crosses the distance between use, stepping over the fire. I’m pinned to the spot, frozen from his declaration and from the war in my mind. Do I act on our feelings? Do I allow him to come closer, knowing what it might lead to? Thorn makes the decision for me, his hands reaching up to cup my jaw, his palms hot and calloused against my skin. And I let him. “I cannot stop thinking of you, day and night. Where you are, what you are doing, what you are thinking, feeling… it is like a sickness. I could not bear to be away from you for days at a time. It had to be me.”

“Thorn, I…” I blink up at him, wanting to reach out and explore every inch of his body, but forcing my fists to stay at my sides. It’s bad enough that he’s cupping my face in his broad hands, that little touch alone heating my body like a fever. Whatever the sickness it is that he has, he seems to have given it to me too. “It all feels like too much sometimes, like the pressure takes the breath out of me. This time, the demands of this life, my feelings. I don’t know that I can… give you what you want.”

“I only want what you are able to give,” Thorn murmurs, his voice rough with honestly, with sincerity. “I have waited so long… my Samara, for you. Thirty-four turns of the seasons. I can wait longer.”

A laugh shakes out of me, and I close my eyes to hide that I might start to cry. Everything in the future - in this time - feels oversensitive and raw and real, every emotion and fear and hope.

Thorn’s confession alone has made me feel like I could burst into tears.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for. You want a ‘female’, you want babies to continue the human race. You don’t know how challenging a real relationship is. Maybe I don’t either.”

“Babies,” Thorn chuckles softly. “Someday. For now, I want you, at my side. I want your laughter, and your frustration. I want you to sleep in my furs with me. I want to do the mouth-caress with you.”

My eyes fly open, “The what? You mean… kissing?”

“Kissing,” Thorn tests the word. “This is when River and Grace press their lips together, yes?”

I laugh a little, at Thorn’s innocence.

It’s so easy to forget how new to all this he is, especially when he’s standing half-naked looking like some golden warrior come to rescue me from the battlefield, or when he’s saying such heated promises to me about aching at night.

But he doesn’t even know what kissing is.

“Yes, we call that kissing.”

“I want this,” Thorn tells me.

Fuck. “I want it too.”

And before I can think any better of it, I decide that that’s enough convincing.

I lean forward, standing on the tips of my toes to reach up to his shocked face, and press my lips against his.