Chapter 4 #3
The first attacker drops from the trees. I move on instinct, shoving Garrett aside as a blade whistles through the space where his throat was a heartbeat ago. I open the attacker’s belly in one smooth motion. He goes down screaming, trying to hold his insides in.
The forest explodes with movement.
They come from everywhere. A dozen at least, maybe more. Masked figures in dark leather surround us, armed with swords and daggers and crossbows.
“Behind you!” Garrett shouts.
I spin, driving my knee into someone’s gut. I finish him with a slash across the throat. Blood sprays hot across my face, getting in my eyes and mouth.
Garrett has his sword out now. His blade finds throats and hearts without mercy.
There’s no hesitation in him. He kills with the same easy grace he uses for everything else.
We end up back to back without planning it.
His shoulders press against mine, solid and warm.
For a moment the world narrows to just the two of us against everyone else.
“On your left,” he says calmly. I duck as his blade swings overhead, taking someone’s head clean off. The body crumples and the head rolls away into the underbrush.
“Two more coming,” I reply and feel him shift, adjusting his stance.
We move together like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks. Every time I strike, he’s there to cover my blind spot. Every time he extends, I’m there to protect his back. It’s seamless and perfect.
An arrow whistles past my ear. I track its trajectory back to an archer in the trees. I throw my dagger. It catches him in the throat. He falls, crashing through branches.
An attacker gets past my guard, their blade slicing across my ribs. Pain flares hot across my skin, but I barely feel it. I drive my elbow into their face, feeling bone crunch. They stagger back. I finish them with my remaining dagger.
“You’re bleeding,” Garrett says, not taking his eyes off the remaining attackers.
“I’m fine.”
Three more rush us together. Garrett takes two, his sword a blur of silver in the dim light. I handle the third, catching their sword on my bracer and driving my blade up under their ribs.
The forest goes quiet. Bodies litter the ground around us, still and broken. I count eleven.
No, twelve.
The last one is trying to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood through the fallen leaves. Garrett walks over and steps on the attacker’s back, pinning them.
“Who sent you?” He twists his foot, grinding the enemy’s face into the dirt. The attacker spits blood and says nothing.
Garrett drives his sword through the guy’s hand, pinning it to the ground. The scream that tears from his throat sends birds scattering from the trees.
“Who. Sent. You.”
I’ve seen this before. Interrogations and torture are common in my line of work. But I’ve never watched someone do it as calmly as Garrett. It’s like this is just another task for him to complete.
The attacker's screams mean nothing to him.
He breaks after the third finger and babbles about a contract. Someone in the Elven Aldarelf council wants Garrett dead. No names though, just gold and promises.
“Not very loyal, are they?” Garrett muses, then ends it quickly. A sword through the throat.
The body goes still.
Garrett wipes his blade on the dead man’s cloak, then looks around at the carnage. “We should bury them.”
“Why?”
“Because leaving bodies on the road raises questions.” He sheathes his sword. “Questions lead to investigations. Investigations complicate things.”
What things? Curiosity pricks at me but I push it down. I don’t question the will of my client.
We don’t have shovels or proper tools. We use fallen branches to dig shallow graves in the hard earth. My ribs scream with every movement, the wound pulling and bleeding fresh with each scoop of dirt.
Garrett works beside me without complaint, his fine clothes getting ruined with mud and blood.
It takes hours. By the time the last body is covered, we’re both exhausted. We stand there in the growing darkness, covered in dirt and blood and sweat.
“You’re not what I expected from a guild assassin,” Garrett says finally. “You’re not enjoying this.”
I lean against a tree, pressing a hand to my bleeding ribs. “Should I be?”
“The others would. I’ve met members of the guild from Tiamat before. Most tend to be sadistic bastards. But you...” He trails off, studying me in the fading light. “There’s no pleasure in it for you.”
I say nothing. What is there to say? That every life I take feels like another piece of myself dying?
We start walking back to the keep. My ribs throb with every step. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving only pain in its wake.
“Tell me about it,” Garrett says after a while. “The city, the guild. You.”
I glance at him. “Why?”
“Because if you’re going to be my shadow for another three weeks, I should know who you are.” He pauses and wipes blood from his sword with a handful of leaves. “And because you interest me.”
I look away, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “I’m not interesting.”
“You’re the most interesting thing to happen to me in years.” His eyes find mine and hold.
I should change the subject. But the pain in my ribs is getting worse, the adrenaline fading and leaving only a burning ache in its wake.
I stumble, catching myself against a tree.
Garrett notices immediately. His hand is on my arm, steadying me. “Hey, you’re hurt.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Wolf.”
I pull up my shirt. The wound is deeper than I thought. It’s still bleeding despite my attempts to ignore it. The edges are ragged where the blade caught me.
“Fuck,” Garrett mutters. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I said I was fine.”
“You’re an idiot.” But there’s worry in his voice, not anger. He tears a strip from his already ruined shirt and presses it against my ribs. I hiss through my teeth. “We need to get you to Anastarros temple.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” His eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding.”
“I can’t leave you unguarded.”
“Wolf, you’re hurt protecting me. The least I can do—”
“The healers will make me stay.” I hold pressure on the wound myself, jaw tight. “They’ll want to monitor me, keep me overnight. I’m not leaving you without protection after we just got ambushed.”
Garrett stares at me for a long moment. “Are you fucking serious? That wound needs stitches.”
“I have a kit in my pouch.” I shift, wincing. “I can do it myself later back in my room. In front of the mirror.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down. I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I said sit.”
I find a fallen log near the edge of the forest and lower myself onto it. Garrett kneels in front of me, pulling my shirt up to expose the wound fully. He retrieves my stitch kit from my pouch.
“You’ve done this before,” I observe.
“Field medicine was part of my training.” He threads the needle, hands steady. “This is going to hurt.”
The first pierce of the needle makes me suck in a breath through my teeth. Garrett’s touch is surprisingly gentle. His brow furrows in concentration as he works, pulling the edges of the wound together with careful stitches.
I watch his face. The way he bites his lower lip slightly when focusing. The crease between his brows. There’s genuine care in the way he handles me carefully.
“Tell me about your pack,” Garrett says quietly, not looking up from his work.
No one’s called it that in years. Most people say family, but pack is what the Sylverins were. It’s what we called ourselves before the purge.
“I barely remember them,” I say, and it’s mostly true. The memories are fragments now, worn smooth by time.
“Tell me what you do remember.” Another stitch and a pull. His fingers press against my skin, warm and solid.
I don’t know why I reach into my pocket with my free hand. Maybe it’s the blood loss making me sentimental. I pull out the small leather pouch I’ve carried for years and open it.
The three silver teeth glint in the fading light. Canines, filed sharp and set in silver caps.
“My grandfather’s,” I say, holding them out so Garrett can see. “He was the pack leader. The last alpha of the Sylverin Clan.”
Garrett pauses in his stitching to look. His fingers are still pressed against my ribs, holding the wound steady. “Sylverin. I’ve heard that name.”
“We were one of the great wolf clans before the purge.” I take the teeth back, running my thumb over the worn silver. “My grandfather held off the hunters long enough for some of us to escape. He didn’t make it.”
“How old were you?” Garrett asks softly, returning to his work.
“Nine. Maybe ten. Old enough to run but not old enough to fight.” The bitterness in my voice surprises me.
Garrett’s hands pause for just a moment. Then he continues stitching, his touch somehow gentler than before.
I watch him work silently.
This lordling stitching me up is the same person who escorts me to healers for my knee. He spends his own coin on my medical care.
Something strange blooms in my chest.
Garrett Clayborne is kind.
And he’s beautiful. I’ve noticed that before, but seeing him like this, covered in dirt and blood but still somehow radiant in the dying light—it hits differently.
This isn’t safe. These feelings aren’t safe.
“Almost done,” Garrett murmurs. His breath ghosts across my skin and I have to fight not to shiver.
I close my fist around the silver teeth, feeling the sharp points press into my palm. The pain grounds me.
Garrett ties off the last stitch and sits back to examine his work. “That should hold. But you really should let the healers look at it tomorrow.”
“We’ll see.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and his scent drifts over to me, wreaking havoc on my senses. It takes everything I have not to lean in, not to bury my face in the curve of his neck and breathe him in properly.
“You hesitate before you take a life. That makes you better than most.” His hand finds my shoulder. “You’re a good person, Wolf.”
“I’m not good, Garrett.” I pull back, breaking contact before I do something stupid. “Don’t mistake hesitation for virtue.”
He reaches out and I hand him the silver teeth to look. He studies them with quiet reverence. Our fingers brush as he takes them. That spark again, stronger this time.
“I’m not good either,” he says quietly, turning the teeth over in his palm before handing them back. “Maybe that’s why this works.”
Garrett is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful.
“You’re not what I expected,” he finally says.
Neither are you.