There was a strange stalemate between the Vasaath and the Duke of Noxborough after that fateful night, but neither of them was willing to lay down his weapon.

The Vasaath and his men had stayed until morning and watched as the humans awoke from their numb sleep only to find the message the Vasaath had sent them in blood. He had been very relieved to see that the humans were so very predictable—with the displayed bodies and the testimony from the ones they had spared, the word had spread like wildfire through the camp, and most men had been quick to leave while they were still alive.

It had worked even better than anyone could have imagined—the Vasaath had suspected there to be at least a thousand soldiers left from Westbridge, but they all left the camp that morning.

He never saw what happened afterwards, but his spies had brought whispers of open war between Noxborough and Westbridge after the Duke of Westbridge had been killed as he tried to escape.

The days that passed after that night were tense, but as days turned to weeks, and the stalemate was still in effect, brows were beginning to furrow.

The event seemed to have changed the mood in the camp, and the Vasaath had seen it most clearly in Juniper. She had become reserved when near him, almost as if she was wary of him. It angered him, frustrated him, and saddened him. He knew not how he could make it better, how he could make her look at him like she used to, and his frustration only seemed to make things worse.

He tried to contain himself, not to make the girl suffer from his emotional turmoil, but he found it difficult to be tolerant and respectful. He wanted to have her close but she didn't seem to want to be near him at all. She didn't push him away, but he could tell that she was hesitant, reluctant—and it was all changed from that night.

A fortnight after the gambit, when they had their supper, he asked her why she was being so elusive, why she was avoiding him. He tried to keep his voice calm, not to accuse her, but it came out harsher than anticipated.

"Well?" he rumbled after the girl had remained silent for too long for his liking.

The girl looked away from him as she said, "I'm not avoiding you, sir. Why would you think that?"

"You won't look at me, for one."

She gazed up at him, but he could see the suspicion in her silver eyes.

The Vasaath sighed. "Your father and brother are both alive, if that's what's bothering you."

She smiled, but it was only half-heartedly. "I know they are."

He clenched his jaw, truly trying his best to keep his temper under control. "Then what is bothering you? Why are you afraid?" He only wished she would speak to him.

She shook her head. "I'm not afraid."

"Disappointed, then."

"I am not disappointed. There is nothing the matter with me, sir."

"Daan," he growled lowly. "Lies. Don't lie to me, Juniper."

The girl tensed and diverted her gaze.

The Vasaath sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I just—" He tightened his jaw and moved to sit next to her. "I just wish to understand. What has happened?" He carefully touched her hair, pulled it over her shoulder, and caressed her back.

The girl wrung her hands together and looked at him. "Nothing. Nothing has happened."

"Then why are you different?" he murmured.

She shook her head and leaned against him. "I'm not." When she gently pressed her lips against his, he pulled her in and held her close.

He claimed her lips and let her know that he still wanted her, perhaps now more than ever; he would never harm her, she needn't fear him. He whispered into her ear, "Do you regret the outcome?"

She shook her head and they kissed again. Her hands sought their way to his hair as he pulled her onto his lap. Desire was rising through him like fire, and he had her at his waist as he rose.

His lips rarely left her body as he undressed her, and it was the first time since that night she had allowed him to touch her like this. Despite his urgent need, desire, and raging lust, he was patient and attentive, making sure he granted her as much pleasure as he knew she would grant him, and he was thrilled to see her receive it with gratitude.

He dared to be bold, knowing she was resilient enough; he then took her with as much honour and reverence as he could, still with intent and assertiveness, and she sang and wailed in pleasure and surrender. The reward was sweet release, his as well as hers.

Afterwards, he held her close, with his chest pressed against her back and his face buried in her hair. He could lie there forever, with his arms wrapped around the girl. He had been so naive thinking he would only need one instance of recklessness, carelessness, to overcome his desires for her. He realised now, after being starved of her for fourteen long days, that he would never be rid of his needs. He cared not if he was reckless, or if he broke rules and ancient traditions. What they shared was beyond any of that; he had her again, and that was all that mattered to him.

"I know what you did," she suddenly said, her voice small in the silence.

The Vasaath frowned, not quite understanding her. "What?"

"That night, during the ambush," she said. "I know what you did."

He suddenly felt his heart drop. How did she know? Of course, she would disapprove of his methods—but this was war. "Who told you?"

Turning her head ever so slightly, she said, "Does it matter?"

He wanted to say yes, that he would wring the neck of whoever caused such a rift between them, but he muttered, "No, I suppose not."

"Would you have ever told me?"

"One day, perhaps."

"Either you'd tell me," she muttered, "or I'd hear all the gruesome stories of how the demons chased away the famous soldiers of Westbridge the night before certain victory."

He set his jaw tight and grunted. "It's war, Juniper. Does it matter how men die?"

"Yes, it does!" she spat and sat up. "Those men didn't die honourable deaths! They had their throats cut in their sleep—a sleep induced by strong foreign herbs, no less!"

The Vasaath sighed and turned to his back, placing his hands behind his head. "Death is death, Juniper. It doesn't matter how a man dies, but die, he must."

"Perhaps it doesn't matter to you," she snapped, "but those men believed that their deaths would determine their afterlives, and you robbed them of that!"

"They are dead!" he barked as he, too, sat up. "It's rather simple—it was either them or us. We killed a hundred of them, yes, and they wouldn't hesitate to kill a hundred of us. Trust me when I tell you that many more would have died had we not done what we did."

Anger was hot in his chest, and he could see that it was in her as well, but she refrained from saying anything.

He sighed. "War is terrible, Juniper. There is no way around it and there is no use denying it. You have a gentle heart and I admire that, but gentle hearts don't win any wars."

She shook her head. "I never wanted war."

"I know." He sighed and reached for her, but she rose and put her shift on.

"I need to wash and cleanse," she muttered.

The Vasaath huffed. "Will you come back?"

She was quiet for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest, before she muttered, "Yes." Then she disappeared through the canvas.

The Vasaath sighed deeply and fell down on the pillows again. He wasn't used to such frustration, nor was he used to people defying him or criticising him. Even less so was he used to being criticised by someone he wanted so ardently to accept him.

He wondered about what she had said, if he had robbed those men of an honourable death, but he simply couldn't agree. If he could choose, he would rather die on the battlefield than having his throat slit in his sleep, yes—but people rarely had the luxury of choosing their deaths unless they took death into their own hands.

He wondered, however, if the girl saw him differently now when she knew to what lengths he was willing to go to win this war. When he returned to her that morning, after the attack, was it fear he had seen in her face? Did she see him as a demon? Had he turned savage in her eyes?

Indeed, if he had had a choice, he would rather have beaten them on the field, face to face, honourably—but he had no choice. Only a fool would think that two hundred men could beat six thousand soldiers in an open battle, and losing was not an option. She had to see that! He had done what he did to ensure the survival of his people, and he was not ashamed of it. And yet, fear was spreading in his heart.

He waited for her patiently. He knew she needed to calm herself and perhaps she needed to think about what had been said, but she had said that she would come back—so he waited.

She did return, eventually, but she said nothing, only crawled under the furs and made herself comfortable. The Vasaath carefully put his arm around her, waiting for her objections, but she said nothing. He pulled her to him in relief. He wondered whether he should say something, or ask anything, but the moment he felt her fingers intertwine with his, he exhaled the breath he didn't even know he was holding. They said nothing more that night and the Vasaath slept dreamlessly until morning.