Chapter 2
TWO
Eirabella
Everything is dark, heavy, like I'm trapped under a thick blanket. My body feels as if it’s suspended in tar, weighed down by an exhaustion that seeps into the marrow of my bones. An unidentifiable rhythmic rocking lulls me in and out of a blurry state of wakefulness and sleep.
For a moment, I wonder if I'm dreaming, drifting in some in-between existence where nothing quite makes sense. The only prevailing fact is that this place is dark, dangerous. And I need to get out. Now. With all the energy I can muster, I will my arms to move, to thrash.
To break free.
In my state of near unconsciousness, I’m breathless from the sheer effort. But I grit my teeth, jaw already aching—from what? I don’t remember—ready to fight against invisible restraints.
“Stop. You’re safe.” A deep voice, low and rough, cuts through the haze.
Then there’s silence again, except for the sound of my own breaths.
Safe? Somehow, I doubt that. But the voice is oddly soothing, and my brain, foggy as it is, decides to take a chance and trust it. Just for now. I want to argue, to ask a million questions, but I’m too tired to do anything but allow the rocking motion to take my consciousness away again.
And so I sleep.
When I wake again, an hour, a year, a lifetime later, the fog in my brain is a little clearer, but the heaviness still weighs. It feels like… like the first morning I woke up after being delirious with the Winter fever for a week. No energy, no life in me. Just random thoughts echoing in a shell. There’s light now, though it’s dim, filtering through my closed eyelids. A cough tries to rack through my body, but my throat is bone dry, parched like I’ve been wading through a silo of sawdust.
“Water…” I manage to croak out, my voice barely more than a whisper, not sure if there’s anyone to hear my plea.
The rocking I hadn’t even noticed this time stops, and a cool hand presses at the back of my neck, tilting my head slightly. A canteen is pressed to my lips, and I drink greedily, too thirsty to care about anything else. The water is cold, soothing, as it slides down my throat, but I barely have time to enjoy it before my stomach revolts.
With eyes still too tired to open, I lurch forward, grabbing my stomach with one hand, the other instinctively covering my mouth.
“Shit.”
The voice, that same deep voice, curses.
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted and then placed onto the ground. The sudden motion is too much, and there’s no holding it back. My stomach heaves, and I bend at the waist, my entire torso screaming in pain as I’m violently sick, retching up the water I’d just gulped down.
Well, that’s just great. I finally get some water, and my body decides it doesn't want it after all.
I lean back against… nothing. Leaning, leaning, until I feel a warm, solid… something behind me. It’ll do , I think, as I drag a breath into my lungs, just in time for another fit of retching to rack through my already exhausted body. Once the tremors, I chance trying to crack an eye open and immediately regret it as the world immediately spins, my vision blurring.
I guess I’m not ready for that particular task yet. That difficult action of just seeing. It’s hard. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
My brain must agree because suddenly the solid something I’m leaning against starts to slide away. And the last thing I can remember before everything descends into darkness is that I hope someone catches me.
When I next come to, the light is brighter, harsh against my eyelids. My body feels better, still stiff, aching in ways I didn’t know it could ache, but better. For a few moments, I enjoy the now-familiar rocking beneath me; it’s become almost comforting. As is the radiating warmth against my back, steady and strong. I think I sigh. Then realisation hits me like a slap. And I have three thoughts, almost simultaneously: firstly, how rude of my brain to slap me when I’m down; secondly, I’m on a horse, I can’t remember the last time I was on a horse; and thirdly, other than me and the horse, I am not alone .
Panic flares in my chest, sharp and sudden. My eyes snap open, and I ignore the skewer that feels like it’s embedding through my skull, and I struggle to push away from whoever, or whatever, is behind me. Strong arms that I didn’t realise were around me tighten, holding me in place. My pulse pounds in my ears, my mind racing through a thousand possibilities, none of them good.
“Let me go!” I shout, hoarse as the sound tears through my dry throat. A sore throat is going to be the least of my troubles if I don’t get off this horse. I twist in the saddle, trying to wrench myself free.
“Stop,” the voice commands, as firm and uncompromising as the arms holding me.
But I don’t stop. I kick out, thrashing with what little strength I have left, desperate to get away. “I said, let me go!” Tilting my head forward, I brace for impact. Then, with gritted teeth, I fling my head back, skull meeting forehead, with a dull, achingly hard thump.
“Fuck!” the voice curses gruffly as the arms loosen slightly for a split second, just enough for me to slip free. I slide off the horse, hitting the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in my body. Pain radiates through me, but I force myself to scramble to my feet, looking up, blinking against the light, trying to make sense of my surroundings.
And then I see him—the guard from the village, Sir Scary, swinging his leg over the horse to join me on solid ground.
My heart stutters in my chest, that same visceral fear flooding back as it did the first time I laid eyes on him at the town square. He was terrifying from afar, but up close, his commanding presence is almost suffocating, paralysing. His face is set in easily the most imposing scowl I’ve ever seen, his dark, unreadable eyes fixed on me with something between annoyance and impatience. He looks even taller from this angle, looming over me like some kind of avenging spirit. I spin around and scramble away, instinctively trying to put distance between us.
He grabs the scruff of my collar and holds me in place.
“Let me go!” I yell.
“No.” With a flick of his wrist, he spins me around so that I’m facing him.
Good gods, he’s scary. And strong. And… and handsome.
Wait, no . He’s not . I mean, he is, but that’s hardly something I should be noticing right now. I can barely speak, feeling his gaze focused on me. But I’ll be damned if he needs to know that. I mentally pull together what’s left of my sanity and square my shoulders.
“What do you want with me? And where are you taking me?” I demand, trying to sound braver than I feel, even as my voice wavers. “I don’t have any money. I don’t have… anything. You’re just wasting your time.” Then it dawns on me. Fucking Samfer . “Is this because of… because of the things I did?” I ask, pissed that my voice is wavering.
His expression doesn’t change. No flicker of surprise, no raised eyebrow, nothing. “No more questions,” he says, his tone flat, as if he’s repeating something he’s said a hundred times before. “You’re safe. That’s all you need to know.” Thankfully, though, he lets go of me.
Safe. Sure, and pigs fly south for the winter. “Safe from what?” I snap, pulling down on my clothes as I slowly back up a single step. And then another. “You didn’t answer my question. Where are you taking me?”
He takes a single step forward, eating up the distance I’ve put between us, and I’m reminded of just how big he is, how easily he could snap me in half if he wanted to.
“Somewhere you’ll be protected,” he says, and there’s a definite edge to his voice now, as if his patience is hanging by a thread. “Now stop asking questions. ”
Protected. Not sure if that’s better or worse than “safe.” I narrow my eyes, trying to decipher his tone, but it’s like trying to read a brick wall. “Protected from what?” I press, crossing my arms over my chest, mostly to keep them from shaking. “Because it looks like you’re the one I need protection from. And just so you know, there was never any eviden—”
He cuts me off with a sharp look, the scowl deepening. “Stop. Talking,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Best for you, if you do.”
I clench my teeth, more annoyed than scared now. “You’re not exactly filling me with confidence that I’m safe, you know.”
“That’s not my job,” he replies, his tone dry and clipped.
“Then what is your job?” I immediately snap back, trying to trick him into giving me something, anything.
Instead, he steps closer, and I realise too late that I’ve backed myself into a tree. He towers over me. Fuck, he’s tall. He makes the tree at my back look like a twig. “Doesn’t matter. You just need to know that I’ll keep you safe,” he repeats, his voice a little softer this time, though still no less commanding. “This is going to go easier on you if you trust me. Can you do that? Because just because I won’t hurt you doesn’t mean I won’t restrain you if I have to.”
Trust him? The idea is laughable, but there’s something in his tone, a thread of sincerity buried beneath the gruffness, that makes me pause. But how can I trust him when I don’t even know how I ended up in the middle of nowhere with him on a horse? Why can’t I remember anything? I reach up instinctively to feel for a lump on my head, fumbling around over my matted hair for any sign of concussion. He watches me with a raised eyebrow.
“What? I’m feeling for a lump! Just trying to see if you thumped me over the head with that ham fist of yours so you could drag me back to your backwater hovel to be your wife!”
He blinks and lifts his gloved hand to his forehead, rubbing at his temple, as if he has a reason to be frustrated. He’s not the one being kidnapped. He sighs and then reaches out as if to grab me again.
I yank my hand back, searching his eyes for some sign of what he’s thinking, but they remain as unreadable as ever. Then, before either of us can say another word, I do the only thing that makes sense—I bolt.
Again.
The underbrush tears at my clothes, branches whipping at my face, but I don’t care. I just need to get away.
Surprisingly, I get farther than I had expected to. Probably because he didn’t expect me to do something so blatantly obvious. And stupid. Twice. Maybe ten or twenty strides into my escape, he’s caught up with me, his hand gripping the back of my clothes again.
“Holy gods, woman, you’re not making this easy,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
“That’s not my job,” I retort, echoing his words.
He doesn’t let go. Instead, he drags me back to his horse, and with just his one hand, lifts me effortlessly and dumps me back on the horse. Then, as if out of nowhere, a long strand of vines appears in his hands, and he wraps it, firmly but not painfully, around my wrists.
I struggle. Hard. Cursing him and about ten generations of his ancestors and their pets as I try to break free.
“Enough,” he says, his voice brooking no argument, sliding in behind me in one smooth movement.
I want to argue, to scream, to do anything but comply, but the exhaustion is catching up to me again, and the prospect of some rest suddenly sounds delicious. My hands fight against the vines for a little while longer, just to make a point, then they drop .
“Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long journey,” he says, his voice deep and dark against the hair on my neck. Arms come back around me to hold me in place, and I’m engulfed by the scent of cloves and oakmoss. Earthy and strong.
“Just in case I haven’t made this clear by how incredibly compliant I’ve been, you’re taking me against my will,” I hiss, the last sliver of defiance slipping out of my body and into my voice.
“Duly noted,” he replies, and maybe it’s my fatigue, but I swear there’s a hint of dry amusement in his tone, though it’s quickly masked by his usual gruffness.
With that, he nudges the horse forward, and we begin to move. The rocking motion starts again, lulling me back into the dark haze of exhaustion. As the forest blurs around me, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve gotten myself into—and why, despite everything, a small part of me wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s telling the truth.
That I am safe.