Zipporah shifted closer, her chin lifting. “I may be your whore, Peter, but I will never be his.”
He jerked back. Suddenly he was breathing as if his armor was too tight. “I never said…” he croaked. “You’re not.”
“Aren’t I?”
“The same could be said of me.”
“What are you talking about? For a man the rules are completely different.”
He bent toward her. He was nose to nose with her. “You are no more my whore than I am yours. And I’ve lived with the cost of that ever since.”
Cost? Who was he to speak of cost? “What cost?”
It took him a moment. She thought he was about to explain then he backed off instead. “Never mind.”
Peter threw his mug. It hit a bench, wood splinters and ale showering the ground. He pulled on his helmet and walked away.
Zipporah stood frozen, her heart hammering. She knew Peter to be an impulsive man, but he’d never been in the habit of losing his temper in front of her.
What the hell had just happened?…
Darcy Branwyn 
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