3. Isolde
ISOLDE
His stride remains steady despite my weight, each step calculated to avoid the worst of the uneven ground.
The wolf's blood has begun to dry on his face, dark streaks that emphasize the sharp angles of his features.
I study his profile as we move through the forest—the heavy line of his jaw, the way his golden-brown eyes constantly scan our surroundings even while carrying me.
The silence stretches, filled only by the soft crunch of leaves beneath his boots and the distant calls of birds returning to their roosts after the violence.
My leg throbs with each movement, but the pain feels secondary to the strange awareness of being held against his chest. His body radiates heat through the torn fabric of his shirt, and I catch myself noticing the controlled strength in his arms, the way he adjusts his grip to keep me secure without making me feel helpless.
"I'm not some delicate flower who wandered off the garden path."
His pace doesn't falter, but I feel the slight tension that runs through his shoulders.
"Could have fooled me."
Heat rises in my cheeks. "I've been managing my own business and traveling trade routes for years. One mistake doesn't make me incompetent."
"One mistake like that can make you dead."
The bluntness of his words cuts through my indignation, but I refuse to let him reduce me to a cautionary tale.
"You're right. I should have been more careful. But speaking to me like I'm a child who doesn't understand consequences won't change what happened."
He glances down at me, those sharp eyes studying my face with an intensity that almost steals my breath. For a moment, something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or grudging respect.
"Most people thank their rescuers without lectures."
"Most rescuers don't deliver sermons along with their heroics."
A sound escapes him that might be amusement, though his mouth barely moves. We navigate around a fallen log, and his grip tightens protectively as he steps over the obstacle.
"What's your name?"
The question comes quietly, almost reluctant.
"Isolde Briar. And yours?"
"Draven."
No surname offered, no elaboration. Just the single word, delivered like it should be explanation enough.
"Well, Draven, I do appreciate you saving my life. Even if your bedside manner needs work."
"I don't have patients. I have problems to solve."
"And which am I?"
He's quiet for several steps, the question hanging between us like morning mist. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a roughness that wasn't there before.
"Haven't decided yet."
Despite the gruff delivery, his uncertainty makes me smile. There's something unexpectedly endearing about this massive, blood-splattered warrior admitting he hasn't categorized me yet.
I study his profile as we continue through the trees, really looking at him.
Beneath the wolf's blood, his deep green skin catches dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.
Dark hair escapes from where it's tied at his nape, framing features that are sharp and defined—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and those striking golden-brown eyes that miss nothing.
Old scars mark his collarbone and forearms, pale lines that speak of countless encounters like the one he just handled with such brutal efficiency.
His tusks, heavy and prominent, should make him appear menacing, but there's something oddly reassuring about the controlled way he carries himself.
The forest begins to thin, and I feel the subtle shift in his posture as buildings come into view. His shoulders square, his jaw tightens, and the easy confidence from our walk transforms into something more guarded.
Gasps ripple through the market square as we emerge.
A woman drops her basket of apples, staring wide-eyed at the sight of the enormous, blood-covered orc carrying a stranger through their midst. Whispers follow in our wake—fragments about wolves and danger and what business does she have out there anyway.
Draven's grip on me tightens almost imperceptibly, and he walks with renewed purpose toward a building marked by a wooden sign painted with mortar and pestle.
The door swings open at his approach, revealing a woman with long dark hair braided over one shoulder. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene.
"Sweet merciful gods, what happened?"
"Bring her to the cot."
Draven's voice carries no room for questions, and the woman—Liora, based on the apothecary around us—immediately gestures toward a narrow bed against the far wall.
He sets me down with surprising gentleness, his hands lingering for just a moment to ensure I'm stable before he steps back. Already, I can see him preparing to leave, that guarded expression settling more firmly over his features.
The door bursts open behind us.
"Isolde! What happened?"
Maddie rushes in, flour still dusting her apron, auburn curls wild with panic. Her bright eyes dart between my torn dress and bloodied leg before landing on Draven's imposing figure.
"Liora, this is my cousin I told you about—the one who just arrived today with the honey shipment."
"I was looking for a good spot to establish my apiary," I explain, settling more comfortably on the cot. "But I wandered too far into the tree line. There was a wolf—massive thing, all teeth and hunger."
Both women gasp, Maddie's hand floating to her throat.
"It had me cornered completely." I gesture toward Draven, who stands near the door like he's calculating the fastest escape route. "He saved my life."
Maddie whips around as if she's only just registered Draven's presence, her eyes widening with surprise.
"Draven? What were you doing so close to town?"
The question hits him like an accusation, and I watch his shoulders tense. He shifts his weight toward the door, those golden-brown eyes darting between Maddie and the exit like he's measuring distances.
"Wasn't by choice." His voice carries the rough edge of someone forced into explanations he'd rather avoid. "Been tracking the beast for two days. Followed it into Thornak's forest."
The admission comes reluctantly, each word pulled from him like splinters from a wound. He wipes at the dried blood on his cheek with the back of his hand, the gesture more frustrated than practical.
"Wait—how did you know I was hurt?" I ask Maddie, suddenly curious about the speed of her arrival.
Maddie laughs, bright and knowing. "News travels fast in Harvest Hollow, cousin. You'd better get used to it. Mrs. Penwhistle saw Draven carrying you through the square and sent Timmy running to every shop."
The explanation makes perfect sense, yet something about the efficiency of small-town gossip both amuses and unsettles me.
Maddie turns back to Draven, her expression softening with genuine gratitude. "It's good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I'm grateful you were there at the right time. You're practically a hero now."
Draven snorts, the sound harsh and dismissive. "Not a hero."
Something in his tone—the way he rejects the praise like it burns—makes me want to contradict him. I catch his attention, holding his gaze until those sharp eyes focus on mine.
"Well, you're my hero, at least."
The words hang between us, and I watch something flicker across his features—surprise, discomfort. His jaw works silently, as if he's chewing on a response he can't quite swallow.
Maddie's head swivels between us like she's following a particularly fascinating tennis match, her bright eyes sparkling with an intensity that makes me suddenly wary.
"You know what? You should stop by the bakery so I can thank you properly with a good pastry.
" Her voice carries that cheerful determination I remember from childhood—the tone that meant resistance was futile.
"Something with that lavender honey Isolde brought.
Consider it payment for services rendered. "
"Don't need payment."
Draven's refusal comes swift and automatic, but Maddie waves him off with flour-dusted fingers.
"Thornak should know the wolves are getting closer to town anyway. You'll need to brief him on what you found."
"You can tell Thornak." He takes a step toward the door, escape clearly his priority. "I must get back to work."
"Someone will have to help Isolde walk there anyway," Maddie continues, undeterred by his retreat. "Liora's got her hands full with other patients today, and I can't hardly walk three feet without stumbling on air—I'm clumsy, you know."
I watch this exchange with growing fascination, recognizing the tactical brilliance of Maddie's maneuvering. She's cornered him as effectively as that wolf cornered me, using social obligation and practical necessity instead of teeth and claws.
Draven's shoulders drop in defeat, and he exhales slowly through his nose—the sound of a man who knows when he's been outmatched.
"Fine."