TEN #2
I stare down at him. “Wolves? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about things that could kill me.” He doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Don’t go too deep into the woods, and they’ll probably leave you alone.”
“Probably?” I choke on the word and still don’t move. “Are you sure there’s not a village nearby? I grew up in the country. I can blend in.”
His look is long and slow. “No, you can’t.”
“What does that mean?” Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I plant my hands on my hips. “Florentia is Leontian territory. Surely they don’t want to kill me.”
“You’re a target, even here. You could hide under a cloak, charm the pants off every local villager, and I guarantee that within an hour, even in Florentia, someone would be trying to sell your location to the highest bidder.”
And the highest bidders are probably the ones who paid those assassins.
I want to argue, but the words die in my mouth. Maybe he’s right. I was in the capital city for less than a week and managed to piss off the entire power structure of Antares. I guess I’m not great at winning others over.
But right now, I’m not sure if I’d rather face the wolves or paranoid villagers.
“Interesting,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“I didn’t take you for a coward.” He shrugs. “If you’re too afraid …”
I’m halfway to the tree before I realize he’s won this round. I hesitate, slowly coming to a stop.
“Problem?” he calls from behind me.
I stomp along the trail without looking back.
“Lake” is an overstatement. It’s little more than a depression in the land.
The glassy black water is choked with reeds, and insects buzz around the shore despite the crisp autumn air.
In two months’ time, the surface will probably be frozen solid.
Florentia is still northern enough to experience a true winter.
I kneel at the lake’s edge and splash my face with the cool water.
The late-afternoon sun is warm enough that I strip off my thick shirt and wash up, scrubbing at the dried mud caked on my palms and under my fingernails.
The water ripples slightly with the movement of small white fish, but even with the distortion, the surface is dark enough to reflect my face.
To reflect the mark on my chest that seems to glow red even days later.
A twig snaps behind me, and I jerk upright, nearly falling into the lake. Bishop laughs. I grab my shirt, clutching it to my chest as I turn to find him standing with folded arms at the edge of the clearing. The sun burns a halo through the trees behind him.
“Done daydreaming at your reflection?” Bishop asks.
I wrench my shirt back on. “I wasn’t daydreaming.”
“Then can I take a turn?” He nods to the lake. He’s still covered in mud from me crashing into him, his normally silver-blond hair a mess of brown clumps at the ends.
“Be my guest.” I scramble to my feet.
Bishop doesn’t move closer, and I realize he’s waiting for me to leave. Apparently, only one of us gets the privilege of modesty.
My stomach grumbles again. “Did you catch anything?”
“You can check. I set the snares about twenty paces from the edge of the clearing.” He looks back at the trees. “Sorry, I forgot that you’re too scared to go into the woods.”
My throat tightens as I picture teeth flashing in the dark. For one treacherous second, I almost say I’ll wait. Almost let him protect me. But he smirks, and pride sinks its claws deeper than fear ever could.
“Fine.” I hold out my hand. “Give me a knife in case there’s something in the traps.”
He winces, squinting slightly in the afternoon sun. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Of course he won’t arm me. “Never mind. I’ll take care of it myself.”
“Look,” he starts. “Let me know if you find something, and I’ll come to—”
But I’m already stalking toward the tree line, ignoring the rest of his instructions. Stepping into the trees feels like walking into a mouth that might snap shut. My breath shortens, palms slicking with sweat. But I refuse to turn back and let him think he’s right about me.
The snares are empty, except for one. It’s been sprung, but whatever was caught chewed its own leg off to escape.
I stare at the bloody tuft of fur for a second.
The creature will still die, and I’ll go hungry.
A thin blood trail leads away, and I follow it, ignoring the tingle of warning that grows with each step I take deeper into the woods, the need for food winning out over my fear.
But there’s no animal at the end of the trail.
The blood simply stops. I’m still looking for where I went wrong when leaves rustle behind me.
I whirl toward the sound, my heart slamming hard enough it might crack my ribs.
A form explodes through the underbrush, branches snapping as something heavy barrels between the trees.
Why the fuck didn’t I demand that knife?
I stumble back a few steps, tripping over a fallen branch as the crashing sounds grow closer.
Shoving myself to my feet, I run toward the dappled light breaking through clustered trunks.
I burst past them, boots skidding on fallen leaves as I reach Bishop.
He’s washing up in the lake, back turned to me and his tunic and armor on a rock nearby.
I force enough air into my burning lungs to yell, “Wolf!”
He startles, water flying around him as he moves with the instinct of a warrior toward me.
He looks larger stripped of his coat and armor, all hard lines and power, like nothing about him is meant to yield.
The sun is lower on the horizon now, turning the water to molten gold, and the light catches on a network of scars on his chest. The sight of them makes me freeze, makes me forget why I’m running.
No. Scars don’t look like this.
These lines and patterns connect and intersect, shimmering like the starlight of a patron’s birthright.
“Do you mind?” he snarls.
I turn quickly away as he snatches up his tunic. Void swallow me. He caught me staring. He probably thought …
I resist the urge to look at the marks again as he yanks on his shirt.
I don’t know why I’m so rattled. I’ve seen a man before—but never one marked like that. As if every line on his chest is a record of something survived, and the sum of them is a story I can’t begin to understand.
“Stay here,” he orders.
My eyes fly open to find him prowling toward the woods in his pants, his now slightly damp shirt and gloves on again, holding his sheath.
“You’re not actually going after it!”
But he pulls out his sword, tossing the sheath to me. “Will you sleep tonight if I don’t?”
He stalks through the trees, not waiting for an answer. I drop the sheath next to the coat he’s left behind, and, against all reason and common sense, follow him. “Bishop, let’s just find a village. Take our chances.”
Turning toward me, he tucks his sword behind his right arm. “Trust me. It’s safer to face the wolves.”
The sound erupts again, the crashing closer this time. The footfalls are frantic and uneven. Bishop’s sword slices through the air in an elegant arc as he spins toward the sound. He raises it at the approaching predator as a white-spotted fawn ambles from behind a tree and freezes.
Bishop lowers his sword slowly. “That,” he says flatly, “is a deer.”
“I know what it is,” I say through gritted teeth, cheeks already burning.
But he’s still glaring at me. “You screamed wolf like we were about to be torn apart.”
“I thought we were!”
“It has spots, Arden.”
“Forgive me for not pausing to inspect its coat while it was charging at me!”
His jaw tightens. “If you’re going to panic every time a leaf rustles, you’re going to get us both killed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I grit out. “Next time, I’ll let whatever it is chew on me first, so I don’t inconvenience you.”
I turn on my heel and march back into the trees, jaw clenched to keep my humiliation from turning into tears that I refuse to let him see.
I rest against a tree, trying to keep myself together.
A soft, choked noise comes from ahead. I push off the trunk and creep forward, afraid to startle potential game. A small, gray rabbit is caught in a snare, its paw twisted at an unnatural angle. It’s still alive, twitching as it struggles to free its trapped leg.
I crouch beside it and run my hand gently over its fur, whispering the way I used to when Andry came with me to slaughter dinner.
“It’s okay,” I say, stroking it. “Let me help you.” It settles a little, although I feel its tiny heart beating a frantic rhythm.
I break its neck as cleanly as I can, then carry it back to camp. Bishop is waiting by a pile of logs, sharpening his knife. He looks up when I arrive, anger lingering in his eyes. I toss the dead rabbit at his feet. He blinks as he lifts it by the ears to inspect my handiwork.
“You broke its neck,” he says, turning it in his hands. “Most people couldn’t do that.”
I brush my palms on my thighs, ignoring the dip in my stomach. “I’m not most people.”
“No, you aren’t.” He studies me long enough that my heart jumps. I swallow, and he tears his attention away, slicing the pelt open with two quick flicks of the knife. He guts the rabbit, hands moving with practiced indifference.
I’m not letting him off the hook so easily. “You aren’t surprised after I ran from a wolf?”
“You ran from a deer.” He tosses the entrails onto the logs.
I cross my arms. “I thought it was a wolf.”
He mutters something I can’t hear, then says, “At least you have some survival instinct. But to answer your question. No, I’m not surprised.”
“But I didn’t kill that oscen.”