Chapter 14 Quinn
QUINN
The clearing hardly qualified as such. Scarcely wide enough for four souls, a heap of canvas, and one exceedingly judgmental cat. The forest pressed close on every side, skeletal limbs knitting together as the last threads of day slid beneath the horizon.
The air smelled of moss and something sour that might have been rotting bark—or merely Branrir’s boots.
Thistle and Branrir moved with the unthinking economy of the competent.
Canvas unfurled, pegs found soft earth, a private grammar of half-phrases and gestures completing what words did not.
Vesper, in customary usefulness, contributed nothing save commentary, enthroned upon a lichen-slick rock with his tail for a scepter and disdain for a crown.
I stood with a bundle of ropes in my arms and stared at them as though they might, through moral persuasion, arrange themselves. They did not.
“I think this one connects to…” I lifted a corner of the tent. It slumped forward, smacked me squarely in the face, and entombed me in a shroud that had lost interest halfway through the haunting. “Never mind,” I informed the canvas.
Elbow-deep in cookware, Branrir called cheerfully, “That one probably goes to the back left corner. Or possibly the front.”
“Is it…labeled?”
“No. But it feels like a back-left sort of rope.”
“I do not know what that means,” I said, posture deflating.
Thistle glanced up from arranging poles and offered a kind smile. “Loop it through the grommet there, then anchor it to the stake.”
I nodded. “Naturally. The…grommet.” I had not the faintest idea what a grommet was or what it looked like.
My fingers fumbled. The knot refused to negotiate.
The peg declined to remain in the earth.
A ridiculous heat gathered behind my ribs.
I had wielded blade and spell and wit across more seasons than I cared to count, yet here I was defeated by cord and canvas.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mav watching.
He was not quite smirking. Yet the corner of his mouth had ambitions.
“What?” I snapped.
He dusted his palms and said, “I’ll get firewood.”
“I will accompany you.”
One brow lifted. “You don’t have to.”
“The tether,” I replied too quickly. “I have no choice.”
Not the whole truth. The tether tugged; my pride shoved. I could not tie a tent, but I could, at the very least, walk into the woods and collect sticks. And perhaps—if one insisted upon honesty—I did not wish to stand ornamental while others moved with purpose.
“Suit yourself,” he said, freeing an axe from his saddle strap in one smooth pull.
I pressed the ropes into Branrir’s hands. He peered down as though I’d given him a piglet wearing a monocle.
“I have great faith in you,” I told him solemnly.
I squared my shoulders, set my cloak, and followed Mav into the gathering dark.
The farther we walked, the denser the trees grew, the forest folding around us like a closing hand.
Starlight threaded the canopy in silvery filaments—enough to guide, but not enough to banish the press of night.
Now and then, I stooped for fallen twigs, tucking them into the crook of my arm.
Mav slowed and turned to me. Uncertainty clouded his eyes as he drew a deep breath.
“About what you said…for the truth loop,” he began. “I didn’t realize it had been so…” He faltered, as though the wrong words might wound me. “I’m sorry that you—”
“I do not wish to speak of it further,” I cut in, the words tumbling out sharper than I intended. I willed him to see the plea in my eyes, to understand my harshness was only fear wearing another face.
Mav’s throat worked. His hand twitched at his side, as though he longed to reach for me but thought better of it. He gave a single, tight nod. “Right,” he said softly. “Well…if you ever wanted to talk about it sometime…”
The unspoken words hung between us, warmer than the early spring air.
It should not have mattered. And yet, some fragile, hidden place within me flared that he cared enough to ask, to offer.
That he wanted to know me, even where I was broken.
I ached to close the distance between us, to press my forehead to his chest and let his steady warmth banish the shadows.
But I already felt too laid bare beneath his gaze.
I was not prepared to open the sealed chambers of my heart and show him the jagged edges of what remained.
I inclined my head, silent, while my fingers curled tightly in my skirts to keep from reaching for him.
Mav continued on. Confident. Unhurried. Entirely at home in his own skin. It was decidedly irritating.
“I know the tether means you have to be here,” he said over his shoulder, voice too casual to be uncalculated, “but I also think you like watching me swing an axe.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “That is absurd.”
Mav tossed me a smirk. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
“I am here to assist,” I said primly, nudging a branch with my boot. “Not to gawk like a village simpleton.”
He laughed, low and warm, as if the sound had slipped his guard. “If you say so.”
I did not answer. Speech felt treacherous.
We came upon a fallen tree, massive, its roots half-rotted, but the trunk still sound. Mav circled, measured, and nodded. “This’ll do.”
He swung the axe from his shoulder, resting it against the tree. Then, with no ceremony whatsoever, he tugged his tunic over his head.
My eyes widened, my mouth falling open in scandal. “What are you doing?”
“I only brought so many clean shirts. Don’t feel like sweating through this one.”
“That—you—I—” I gave up on grammar.
“You alright there, princess?” He smirked. “You’re staring like I’ve done something indecent…or perhaps you want to do something indecent.”
“I-I do not…I am not a princess.” I averted my gaze a heartbeat too late. “You are very…tan,” I muttered.
He barked a laugh and turned to the tree. “It’s called sunlight. You should try it sometime.”
I fixed my focus upon a moss-covered rock. I should not look at the lines cut neatly into his shoulders, nor the way light found the curve of his back when he raised the axe.
Of course, I looked.
How could I not?
Each swing sent muscle rippling down his spine, shoulders bunching and releasing in a rhythm that should not have been hypnotic and yet was. Sweat gathered at the nape of his neck and tracked down the length of him.
I told myself I was merely observing for educational purposes.
That was an untruth.
The truth was simpler: I wished to trace every line with my fingertips, with my mouth.
He unsettled me in ways I scarcely dared name. Whatever composure I claimed, I was still a woman of flesh and wanting. Capable of reason, yes, but not immune to need.
The axe bit again, his grunt loud in the hush, and I startled—both at the sound and at the realization that I had drifted so far into my own thoughts I had forgotten he could speak.
“Enjoying the show?” he teased.
“I-I do not know what you mean.”
“I think you know exactly what I mean,” he purred.
I glared at the log as though it might intercede. “I was attempting to learn. I have never chopped wood.”
“Oh,” he said, glancing back at me at last. “Why didn’t you say so?” He set the axe in a knot, braced, and motioned me forward. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
My feet obeyed before logic could assemble a defense. “I am not convinced this is wise.”
“What, afraid of splinters?”
“No,” I said, lifting my chin. “I am afraid you will make another smug comment about your imaginings of me observing you.”
“I can’t help it if you’ve got good taste.”
I resisted every instinct to lift my eyes skyward.
He stepped aside from the log, one hand loose on the haft, the other beckoning. “Come on.” That insufferable half-smile tugging. “Didn’t you say you wanted to learn?”
“You said you would show me,” I replied, affecting indifference. “I did not commit to participation.”
“Too late,” he said softly. “You’re already here.”
Reluctantly, I took the axe. It was heavier than anticipated; the handle was rough where his hands had worn the grain. Upon attempting to lift it, I tipped forward, nearly falling.
Mav chuckled. “That’s…one way to hold it.”
“It is awkward.”
“You’re awkward.”
“You are arrogant.”
“And you’re stalling.”
Before I could mint a retort, he stepped in behind me—so close the heat of him wrapped around me. His hands closed over mine, sure and callused, and my stuttering breath betrayed me.
“Hands here,” he murmured, adjusting my grip. “Wider stance. You’re not serving tea.”
“I would much rather be doing that.”
He laughed. The sound rumbled against my back. “Ready?”
No. “Yes.”
He guided the swing. Our arms moved as one; his strength steadied mine; the axe arced clean and bit. A satisfying crack answered. Again. And again. My body performed the task, but it was his instruction that shaped each cut.
Whatever counsel he offered about leverage and follow-through blurred to static.
There was no chance of focus with his breath at my temple and his body against mine.
My world contracted to the heady perfume of wood, sweat, and him.
I found myself surrendering to the rhythm of his movements, and to the quiet fact of how safe I felt within his arms, as though the world beyond them could not reach me.
Saints preserve me, I took pleasure in it.
We struck once more; the axe thunked home.
“And that,” he said, releasing me, “is how you do it.”
He freed the axe and stepped away, leaving me mourning the sudden absence of his warmth.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“You weren’t listening, were you?”
“No,” I admitted, breath uneven. “Not in the least.” I turned to thank him and lost the ability to draw breath.
He stood too near. His eyes were already on mine. His gaze flicked to my mouth—a heartbeat, no more—and returned.
“Why won’t you just admit it?” he asked, his tone teasing and testing.
“Admit what?”
“That you enjoy watching me.”