Grinda huddled under the pelt, bunched up close to Mock. It had been cloudy and windy all day, and the night was no different.
The bushes surrounding them bent and rustled, flattening against the blasting wind. There were few trees, and their branches creaked and groaned like old women. She shivered.
They’d taken refuge behind a ridge in the hopes of blocking out much of the icy air. It had partly worked.
She winced at a drop of rain, then at another. She looked up. Dark, heavy clouds blackened the sky. It was so dark she could hardly see her hand in front of her face.
She shivered as the spitting rain turned to a shower.
She felt Mock stir beside her.
“Biala?” he said. “You asleep?”
“No.”
“We should move.”
He slipped his hand into hers, and they stood together. The pelt fell away, and she began to shiver violently.
The rain was blowing along with the wind now, a blast of water that wet through her tunic and turned her skirts damp.
As usual, Mock seemed unaffected, warm against her side. He picked up the pelt, then pulled her closer to the ridge.
The ground was hard and uncomfortable, rocks poking sharply into her backside as she sat, but at least it was dry. Wind whistled through the gaps in the rock.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Mock disappeared into the darkness.
She heard Winter nickering, followed by a small curse quickly lost to the wind as Mock struggled with something. Grinda watched anxiously, hands fisted in her lap, huddled beneath the pelt.
By the time he returned with Winter and the rest of their belongings, the wind was howling.
“You all right?” Mock said as he sat beside her.
“C-c-cold.”
Cupping her hands in his, he blew against them, then dragged her into his arms. He pulled back with a start. “You’re soaked.”
Quickly, he yanked off her tunic. Her skirts followed soon after. She sat naked in his lap, his warm arms around her as he rubbed her up and down and blew at her hands.
His hair was soaked, sticking wetly to his shoulders. More water dripped from his beard. He kissed her on the cheek, on the back of her neck, then adjusted the pelt around them.
It was wet on the outside but warm within. Soon, her shivering stopped.
And then it was nice. She’d never felt so comfortable with the rain and wind howling around her.
His powerful heart thudded against her, and even now she could feel his cock harden, pressing against her arse. She chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” he said, a smile in his voice.
“You.”
He parted the hair from her neck and kissed her there again, his wet beard brushing against her shoulder. He shifted awkwardly beneath her.
Grinda might have been comfortable, but Mock had to endure rocks in his backside.
“You’re never going to sleep like this,” Grinda said guiltily.
He yawned. “I’ll sleep tomorrow.”
Winter stomped his hoof and nickered. The wind howled. The rain hammered. Nestling into the curve of Mock’s body, Grinda closed her eyes.
Despite his discomfort, Mock did manage to fall asleep, though he dreamed that a hundred pixies armed with scythes were jabbing at his arse.
He shifted with a grunt.
At least Grinda was comfortable, lying warm and limp in his lap, her head heavy against his shoulder. She was breathing deeply, her fingers twitching against his chest, breaths hot against his nipple.
Winter gave a snort, stomped, then whickered. Mock opened his eyes. He blinked, bleary-eyed. The rain was still pounding, the wind was howling, and it was so dark he was almost blind.
But there was something different. He squinted. Something was moving to and fro like a tide, and it was all around them. His eyes widened.
“Grinda.” He shook her.
She stirred. “Wha’?”
He began climbing to his feet, and she quickly pulled out of his lap in a panic. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
“Can you swim?”
She looked up at him, a shadow in the darkness, then looked around her. She sucked in a breath.
She nodded.
They moved quickly as they loaded Winter with their supplies. By the time they were ready, the water was already lapping at their toes.
“How did this happen?” Grinda shouted above the wind as they waded into the water. She gasped at the cold, then gave a little shriek, her hand squeezing Mock’s.
Behind them, Winter wasn’t happy either, snorting and whining as Mock pulled him along by the reins.
“My fault.” He should have known. It had been dark when they’d arrived, and he’d been tired and careless and hadn’t taken proper notice of the surrounding landscape.
Looking back now, he could see it—the surrounding hills and ridges, the rocky ground, bare of vegetation. They’d made camp in a shallow ravine. A boy’s error.
Foolish. Stupid.
The water lapped at Mock’s waist. It was almost at Grinda’s breasts. Releasing her hand, he grabbed onto her upper arm for a firmer grip as the water churned and seethed around them.
The muscles in his thighs hardened as he strained against its pull. One misstep, and they would be sent careening down the river.
It was difficult. His body was numb, and the water was creeping up quickly. It was almost to his chest now and to Grinda’s neck. His heart was pounding. There was a rushing in his ears.
Grinda screamed. Mock only had time to seize onto her before it smashed into them.
Submerged. Eerily quiet. There was the gurgle and whoosh of tossing water as they tumbled and rolled and cartwheeled. Blackness. Blindness. They were completely at the Mother’s mercy.
Mock locked his arms and legs around Grinda so tightly he thought he would strangle the air out of her, but he dared not loosen his grip.
Something hard smashed into him, and pain exploded in his shoulder. For a moment, he blacked out, long enough for Grinda to slip from his grasp.
He scrabbled for her and locked his hand onto something smooth and slippery, but a surge of water yanked her from his clutches again.
Lungs screaming, heart pounding, shoulder in agony, he thrashed toward what he thought might be the surface, only to find more water. Up was down; left was right. There seemed no end to the Mother’s fury.
More tumbling. Something grazed against his back. Something whacked against his thigh. His lungs clenched down, a breath away from filling with water.
Another roll, a sudden thrust upward, and his head broke through the surface. Air! Noise roared in his ears. Cold rain whipped against his face as he gulped and spluttered and gasped.
Then he submerged again. All was silent except for the gurgle of water until he was thrust up again, and he gasped in the air once more.
His knees grazed against the bottom, and he lurched face-first into shallow water.
Water swirled and lapped around him as he crawled along the bank. Only once completely away from the surging river did he collapse, chest heaving, sweet mouthfuls of air filling that agony in his chest.
Rolling onto his back, he blinked up into the rain.
He paused at a sound, somehow holding his breath. He straightened. There it was again—a faint moan. How he’d heard it against the blasting rain was a miracle. “Grinda! Answer me!”
Her cry was feeble. “Mock.”
Relief swept over him. She was close.
He rushed over, limping and stumbling, his shoulder aching, his legs like water. “Grinda!”
“Mock.”
Her dark figure was stretched out on the ground. He dropped to his knees beside her.
“Grinda.” He gently gripped her face. She moaned as he lifted her head. “Are you hurt?”
“My head.” She touched his hand, her face, then just above her ear. He touched it too. It was sticky.
“Come on.” Sliding his arms under her, he heaved her into his embrace. Groaning, she clutched at her head.
Dizzy and weak, his shoulder a ball of agony, he staggered but managed to carry her a safe distance away from the raging waters.
By the time he laid her down amid a copse of trees, the rain had lessened to a sprinkle and the wind to a sharp, cold breeze.
He could still hear the roar of the water as it surged and smashed and hissed through the ravine.
No shelter. No clothes. No dry kindling to make a fire. Their skin was wet against the icy breeze. Grinda shook violently in his arms, teeth chattering. Even Mock felt goosebumps erupt on his skin.
With nothing else to do, he held her close, rubbing her up and down, breathing his warm breath against her face, praying to the Mother for her protection, that Grinda’s head wound wasn’t worse than he thought.
Praying she would survive the night.
Sunlight. Warmth against her skin. The day was so bright it made Grinda’s eyes ache and her head throb. She rolled over with a hiss, grabbing at her head. Her heart thundered.
All that water, tossing and tumbling, helpless in its grip, thinking she was going to die, imagining her lungs filling with water. Thinking she’d never see Mock again.
She shivered.
A big, warm hand touched her shoulder. “Finally awake.”
She turned, saw Mock sitting beside her, then sprang into his arms, holding him tight, burying her face into his chest so she could breathe him in.
“You’re all right,” she murmured.
He rested his chin on her head. “In one piece. How are you feeling?”
She touched her head where she’d hit the rock. It was no longer sticky, her hair dry like the rest of her.
She recalled hearing his gentle voice as she’d lain halfway between waking and sleep earlier that morning, when the world had been gray and she’d still been wet, cold, and dazed.
She’d felt his gentle touches as he’d explored her wound and washed the blood out of her hair and the mud from her body.
He smoothed the hair back from her ear, prodding her wound gently. “It isn’t so bad. Just a little knock.”
She winced. “A little knock that hammers like the smithy. But what about you?” She touched his shoulder.
It looked terrible, black and red and all swollen up. He was caked in mud from foot to throat. His eyes were red rimmed, shadows beneath, cheeks drawn. Had he slept at all?
“I’ll live.”
She ran her fingers through his hair. Flecks of mud crumbled away. Somehow, his beard was clean, looking almost fluffy.
She smiled, then jerked straight, suddenly realizing. “Where’s Winter?” Pulling herself off his lap, she staggered to her feet.
“You shouldn’t get up.” He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her as the world lurched. Dark spots clouded her vision. Taking her face, Mock looked into her eyes. “Take deep breaths.”
Holding his arms, she focused. Her vision cleared. The world righted.
Hand in hand, they wandered back to their old camp. Mock must have lost his kinta in the water. She curled a hand around his backside.
When they broke through the trees, Grinda gasped. The water was gone, leaving a river of mud and debris in its wake.
Even the ridge they’d been sleeping up against hadn’t escaped the flood, submerged in mud and branches and a whole host of soggy things.
Then she saw him. She gave a cry.
“That bloody beast,” Mock smiled.
Winter was quietly grazing along the opposite bank, where the mud hadn’t reached and where the grass was green and long.
Caked in dried mud up to his belly, he was swishing his tail, looking perfectly content, as though nothing had happened.
Laughing, Grinda shook her head. He was like a rock or a heavy log, lazy and useless but completely unflappable.
Their supplies were gone, but she could see what might have been the sleeve of her tunic and the gleam of a blade in among the muddy debris. It was going to be a long morning retrieving it all.
“Where do you want to start?” Mock asked, already sounding tired at the thought.
“Later.”
“I said where, not when.”
Smiling, she pulled his arms around her, then gently cupped his balls. “Right here.”
Mock laughed.
