4. Ash
Ash
If I had a copper for every time I wanted to open Garrick’s throat, I’d finally have enough money to pay him back. Of all the debts I’ve accumulated, the one I owed Garrick tasted the worst.
The memory still sat wrong in my bones even after all these years—the way pain hollowed me out, the way the world had gone dim at the edges. I’d taken a bounty that should’ve been simple and clean.
It wasn’t.
Steel, blood, and bad luck—that’s what it had turned into. By the time I had crawled my way out of it, I had been barely more than a body dragging itself forward out of sheer spite. I remember collapsing, the taste of iron, and the cold.
And then, Garrick.
He could have left me there. Most would have.
A dying bounty hunter wasn’t worth much more than the trouble she brought.
But instead, he paid for a healer. A real one.
The kind you only heard about in stories with magic that dragged you back from death whether you deserved it or not.
I never asked how much it cost. People like Garrick didn’t spend coin like that unless they planned to get it back.
With interest.
Worse yet, healing wasn’t the only magic he’d paid for that day.
While I was still too weak to fight back, Garrick had his healer cast a silence-weaving glamour over my tongue, ensuring I could never tell a soul about our agreement, nor spread a single word of ill news about his business.
The pompous fuck was so damn worried about his precious reputation that he’d locked my secrets behind a spell before he even let me wake.
“You owe me a life favor,” he had stated once I could stand again. “I’ll call it in when I want it.”
Not if.
When.
So, I worked job after job. Retrievals, escorts—things that paid well enough, dangerous enough to suit someone like me and, conveniently, useful enough to suit someone like him.
Garrick never lifted a blade himself. He didn’t need to.
He was born into old wealth—the kind that lasted even after his parents were gutted by bandits on a road in the Wilds.
Their deaths left him a trust so vast he would never have to work a day in his life.
I thought, eventually, that perhaps the debt had dulled, thinned. Or perhaps Garrick forgot about my debt to him.
I was wrong.
I was halfway across the continent when a raven with black feathers and sharp eyes that seemed to peer into my soul landed beside me while I was elbow-deep in water, scrubbing down the side of an elephant.
Bathing an elephant was something on my bucket list for years, and this one had narrowly escaped a hunter who wanted to slay her for the high price of her tusks.
I remember taking one glance at the bird when it appeared, thinking it was a coincidence, until Garrick’s voice poured out of its beak. The creature spoke of a location, a summons, and no room for refusal.
I left that same day. I didn’t even get to finish washing the damn elephant.
It took me three weeks to reach this quiet, forgettable town tucked at the base of a mountain that, for some reason, travelers liked to hike. And now, here I was—still in Garrick’s debt and still dancing to his damn tune.
Which is how I found myself standing in a market stall, pretending to browse trinkets while calculating coin in my head.
Because if there was one thing I hated more than men like Garrick, it was owing anyone anything.
Yet I wasn’t sure what had made me stop.
I’d passed a dozen stalls already, glancing over heaping baskets of produce, cuts of meat, fresh bread, honeyed scents in the air that made my stomach growl despite myself. Practical, necessary things.
This wasn’t that. The trinkets caught the light. A flicker, almost easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Her stall didn’t need to shout like the others. It drew you in. Everything was arranged with an almost obsessive care.
It was beautiful in a way that didn’t belong in a place like this.
My feet carried me closer before I could think better of it. And then I noticed the dark-haired seller. Soft. That was the first word that came to mind.
Her hands were untouched by the kind of work that hardened a person, with no callouses or scars—just smooth skin brushing over ribbons like it might bruise under anything harsher.
Her cheeks were flushed, likely from the day’s labor, but even that looked gentle on her, like the world hadn’t quite figured out how to press too hard against her yet.
A white bonnet framed her face, curls spilling free beneath it in a way that felt almost rebellious despite how proper the rest of her looked.
Her dress was embroidered with tiny petals that trailed along her skirts and swayed when she moved.
Her figure was full, and she had round cheeks, wide brown eyes that lifted to meet mine and then immediately gave her away.
Her breath hitched, subtly, but I caught it.
A low and sharp satisfaction filled my chest, a quiet kind of satisfaction I wasn’t proud of but didn’t bother denying either. These small towns weren’t built for people like me, people who didn’t bother softening their hard edges.
And she was an open book. Every flicker of feeling was written plainly across her face. I easily caught the way her gaze tried not to linger on my leather, and the way it did anyway, followed by the flush that deepened when I let my eyes drag over her without apology.
I let myself take my time drinking her in. She was pretty, very pretty. And yet, not my type. I’d always preferred women who met my gaze without flinching, women who pushed back and knew exactly what they wanted and weren’t afraid to take it.
One glance at her stall had been enough to see there were too many untouched things, too much careful placement left undisturbed. No gaps where items had been taken. No signs of steady coin passing through. So, I bought the ribbon out of an unexpected sense of pity.
This wasn’t a town that lingered over pretty things or spent coin on wishes tied to wind and prayer. Thistlebrook was built on grit. People here bought what they needed—certainly not ribbons and trinkets.
And yet there she was, standing behind a table full of delicate, hopeful things, as if she truly believed someone would stop long enough to care.
Foolish. Whimsical.
She clearly wore her heart too openly. Every thought, every rush of feeling laid bare in her expression like she didn’t know how to hide it, like no one had ever given her a reason to.
Or worse, like she refused to. She was in over her head.
And still, I’d set the coin down anyway.
The ribbon felt lighter than it should have when I tucked it into my pocket as I turned away from her stall.
I didn’t look back. I could already picture her standing there beneath the lantern light, clinging to a dream that wouldn’t survive long out here.
The sounds of the market faded behind me as I made my way toward the inn, the scent of smoke and supper thickening in the air. Practical things. Real things.
The kind of world I understood.
Tomorrow, I had a job waiting, and hopefully it would be my last job for Garrick. I rolled my shoulders once, settling back into myself as the weight of the reminder grounded me.
No ribbons.
No prayers.
Just action.