Chapter 13 Esme #2
“Do you love her?” The question comes suddenly, unexpectedly, after a long moment of silence. There’s something carefully neutral in his tone, but I catch the tension in the way he holds his shoulders.
“Yes.” The word comes out soft but utterly certain.
“Everything happened so fast between us. We were building toward something deeper, something more, and then there was Sam.” I shake my head, still marveling at how quickly my entire world had shifted.
“I didn’t even realize my fated mate had been sitting next to me in classes for months before Micah ever came to HellNight Academy. ”
His eyes widen slightly at my words, but he doesn’t respond immediately, processing this revelation.
I don’t look at him when I continue, focusing instead on the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above us.
“Things between Sam and me changed incredibly fast once we figured out what we were to each other. As for Micah and me, well, she left what was developing between us open to our own interpretation when everything fell apart. She never demanded I choose or made me feel guilty about the bond with Sam.” The memory brings a bittersweet smile to my lips.
“So yes, I love her deeply, but I chose Sam and love him enough to commit myself fully to our bond. We didn’t discuss our connection with Micah in detail afterward, but I know she understood my choice. ”
Locke gives a short, almost harsh sound and clicks his tongue to urge his horse forward, deliberately putting distance between us.
The sudden withdrawal stings more than I expected.
I suppose he’s heard everything he needed to hear about the complicated tangle of my heart.
The ache in my chest when he’s near me is proof enough that my feelings aren’t as neatly contained as I’ve tried to make them seem, but I don’t think he wants that particular confession right now.
Of course he ran. It’s becoming a frustratingly familiar pattern with him. I want to say more, but before I can urge my mare forward to follow, the dense forest around us begins to thin dramatically as we approach what appears to be a ridge.
The village of Stonehearth comes into view below us, small and quiet, nestled like a sleeping cat against the gentle curve of the forest’s edge.
The buildings are simple and practical, constructed of weathered timber with thick, mossy roofs that seem to blend seamlessly into the natural landscape.
Thin spirals of smoke curl lazily from a handful of chimneys, but the cobblestone streets appear largely empty in the afternoon light.
“Welcome to Stonehearth,” Rue announces with theatrical flair, trotting forward and executing a mock bow from his saddle. “Land of distrustful stares, awkward silences, and the occasional decent ale if you know where to look.”
He’s not wrong, I realize as we clip-clop down the main thoroughfare of the village.
The few villagers we encounter don’t rush out to greet us with welcoming smiles.
Instead, most peek cautiously through their curtains before quickly disappearing back into the shadows of their homes.
You can tell immediately that this place isn’t accustomed to visitors, and definitely not ones who look like us.
We’re armed, travel-worn, and carrying the unmistakable air of people on a dangerous mission.
A handful of fae hurry past us on the street, going about their daily business without sparing us so much as a backward glance, though I catch several of them whispering to each other once they think we’re out of earshot.
Locke brings his horse to a halt at the edge of the village square and swings down from the saddle with fluid grace. “Stay here with the horses,” he instructs, his tone brooking no argument. “I’m going to ask about Galin.”
He strides purposefully toward the nearest tavern, a sturdy building with a weathered wooden sign hanging askew above the door and disappears inside without looking back.
The rest of us remain mounted in the dusty road, our horses shifting restlessly beneath us.
The animals seem to sense the tension in the air, they’re clearly in desperate need of water and a proper rest, their sides heaving slightly from our long journey through the forest. Rue continues humming softly to himself, but I notice his eyes are in constant motion, cataloging every face, every doorway, every potential threat around us.
Sam is equally vigilant beside him, his posture alert and ready despite his casual appearance.
I watch the tavern door anxiously, my stomach knotting with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. We’ve made it this far safely, but something about the oppressive quiet of this place sets my teeth on edge.
Then I hear it. A sharp snap of tension in the air, like a bowstring being released.
An arrow whistles past my head with deadly precision, but I’m already moving.
Rue curses violently as he lunges forward, tackling me clean off my horse and sending us both crashing to the hard-packed earth.
The impact knocks the wind from my chest, leaving me gasping and disoriented.
A second arrow embeds itself with a solid thunk in the wooden post of the tavern, exactly where my head had been just moments before.
My horse whinnies frantically, dancing sideways in panic, but mercifully doesn’t bolt as Rue reaches up to grab her trailing reins with one hand while keeping me pinned safely beneath him with the other.
“Stay down,” Rue hisses through gritted teeth, already drawing his blade with practiced efficiency. All his playfulness has vanished completely, replaced by the deadly spy Locke described.
Sam’s response is instantaneous and terrifying.
The shift happens so fast I almost miss it, one moment he’s human, sitting astride his horse with his hands clenched into fists, and the next he’s a blur of brown fur and lethal grace as he launches himself toward the source of the attack.
He moves like liquid violence, dodging between buildings with supernatural speed and agility.
Screams erupt from the villagers who witness his transformation, followed by the sound of doors slamming shut throughout the settlement as people barricade themselves inside their homes.
Rue pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness, keeping his body positioned protectively between me and the rooftops where our attackers might be hiding. His eyes scan the skyline with the focused intensity of a predator.
“Sweet Esme, are you hurt?” he asks, his voice tight with concern even as his sword remains raised and ready.
“I’m fine,” I manage to breathe out, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Sam—”
“He’ll be perfectly fine,” Rue assures me with grim satisfaction. “Wolfie needs to draw blood right about now. Someone just tried to harm his mate, which means he needs this hunt more than he needs air.”
As if summoned by his words, a blood-curdling scream echoes from somewhere beyond the buildings, followed by the sound of snarling and a wet, tearing noise that makes my stomach clench.
Locke bursts from the tavern like an avenging angel, his blade already drawn and gleaming in the afternoon light. He takes off at a dead run in the direction of the commotion, his black cloak billowing behind him as he vanishes from sight around a corner.
I clutch Rue’s sleeve as we back cautiously toward our horses, both of us scanning the surrounding area for signs of additional attackers. The street has fallen into an eerie, unnatural silence that seems to press against my eardrums.
Then the sound of whimpering cries drifts back to us, followed by heavy footsteps.
Locke and Sam emerge into view, dragging two bloodied figures behind them like sacks of grain.
Both prisoners are dressed head to toe in black leather, their hoods pulled up to conceal their faces, with their arms bound securely behind their backs.
One of them is openly weeping, tears streaming down his face as he babbles incoherently, while the other continues to snarl curses and threats despite his precarious situation.
Locke slams the more defiant prisoner to the ground with enough force to make me wince. “Who sent you?” His voice is deadly calm, which somehow makes it even more terrifying than if he’d been shouting.
The talkative assassin spits a mouthful of blood at Locke’s boots in response. “The queen herself gave the order. Down with the bastard abomination. She will never be allowed to rule Vanir, no matter what prophecies say otherwise.”
Sam growls low and dangerous. The man pinned beneath his massive paws actually pisses himself in terror, shaking so violently I’m not surprised by his silence.
“You will not live to see another sunrise,” the mouthy assassin sneers, apparently too stupid or too fanatical to recognize how precarious his position has become.
“You’re right about not seeing another sunrise,” Locke agrees with chilling matter-of-factness.
“But she will live to see many, while you won’t.
” He doesn’t even blink as he drives his sword through the first man’s chest in one clean, efficient motion.
The blade slides between ribs like it was always meant to be there.
The would-be assassin’s eyes go wide with shock before light fades from them entirely.
Sam doesn’t hesitate when the other man opens his mouth to scream for help. The sound is cut off abruptly as Sam’s sharp teeth clamp around his throat, and with one swift motion, it’s over.
I don’t look away, and I don’t allow myself to react with horror or disgust. I can’t afford such luxuries. I’m no stranger to carnage and death. I’ve seen enough violence to last several lifetimes, and I’ve caused my fair share of it too.
These men came here with the express purpose of killing me.
They didn’t know me personally, had never been harmed by me, yet my life meant absolutely nothing to them.
They were following the orders of a zealot who sees my very existence as a threat to her power.
Their deaths were not just inevitable, they were necessary.
Such a waste of life, and for what? Because of what I am, because of who I might become, because of prophecies and bloodlines and ancient fears.
Their blood pools beneath their bodies, seeping into the dusty earth of the village square. I swallow hard, forcing my legs to remain steady and my expression to stay neutral.
Locke turns to address the terrified villagers who have begun to emerge from their hiding places, his voice carrying clearly across the square. “We’re here on direct orders from the king himself. These men attacked someone under his personal protection.”
No one responds immediately, but several villagers scurry away, and I can only assume they’re going to fetch whatever passes for local authority to deal with the bodies.
“Leave them where they lie,” Locke tells Rue curtly. “Someone else can clean up the mess.”
He sheathes his sword with practiced efficiency, gives me a brief but searching glance that seems to catalog my physical and emotional state, then mounts his horse in one fluid motion.
“The barkeep gave me directions,” he announces. “Galin lives on the outskirts of the village, where the forest begins to reclaim the land. Let’s move immediately. There may be more of them watching, waiting for another opportunity.”
Rue raises an eyebrow as he helps me back into my saddle, his touch gentle despite the violence we’ve just witnessed. “Well then. No fuss, no cleanup, no unnecessary drama. That’s how you handle assassins, I suppose. Charming as ever, our dear Locke.”
Sam shifts back to human form without ceremony, unbothered by his nakedness or the blood still staining his hands.
He grabs the nearest clothing from his pack and yanks it on efficiently, not looking at me directly.
When he mounts his horse, I can feel his residual anger pulsing through our bond like a living thing.
Rue’s hand lingers on my elbow as he ensures I’m secure in my saddle. “Let’s ride, sweet Esme. Galin awaits.”
We ride away from the village in tense silence, but none of us looks back at the carnage we left behind in the square. My heart continues to pound, my ears still ringing faintly from the assassin’s final scream, but my resolve has only strengthened.
I am so incredibly tired of feeling defenseless, of constantly relying on the men around me to protect me when I know damn well I’m capable of fighting for myself.
The magic that was ripped from me, the power that should be mine by birthright, I need it back.
Not just to survive, but to become who I was always meant to be.
So, I ride forward with grim determination. I ride toward power and answers, toward the trials that will either transform me or destroy me. Either way, I refuse to run from my destiny any longer.