Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Garrett’s face is inches from mine as I open my eyes.
He’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching me with a small smile. His hair is mussed from sleep, catching the morning light like spun gold.
“Morning,” he says softly.
My brain takes a moment to catch up. We’re still tangled together. His arm is still around my waist. And there’s a very obvious, very uncomfortable problem between my legs.
Fuck. I’m unbearably hard.
The dream is still vivid in my mind.
Garrett beneath me, my hands pinning his wrists, his back arching as I drove into him.
The grunts he made as he echoed my name.
But the dream had shifted and twisted in the middle.
Suddenly I was the one pinned, Garrett’s weight pressing me into the mattress, his teeth on my throat, taking what he wanted.
Why the hell would I dream that?
Because a dream is the only place where my most depraved and darkest fantasies can play.
I came in my sleep. I can feel the sticky, uncomfortable mess in my smallclothes.
Please, every god that exists, let him not notice.
“You came to bed after all,” he says, smiling.
Fuck.
I extract myself from his embrace as carefully as possible, keeping the blanket strategically positioned. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t catch a cold, thanks to you,” he mutters.
“It’s nothing.” I’m already moving toward my pack, angling my body away from him. “I’ll use the shower first.”
“Alright.” If he notices my hurry, he doesn’t mention it.
I grab clean clothes and practically flee to the bathroom. The moment the door closes, I lean against it, heart pounding.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The shower is quick and cold. I scrub away the evidence of my dream, trying not to think about Garrett on the other side of that door and how right it felt waking up in his arms.
When I emerge, Garrett gives me that easy smile again.
“Your turn,” I mutter, gathering my clothes.
He disappears into the bathroom and I use the time to collect myself. Check my knives, adjust my mask, anything to avoid thinking about the dream or the way he looked at me this morning.
By the time he finishes, I’ve managed to rebuild some of my walls. We pack quickly, efficiently. Muireann has breakfast waiting downstairs. It’s just some bread, cheese, and cold meat. We eat standing, both of us eager to get moving.
“The forest,” Garrett says as we head for the stables. “Muireann said that’s where they found Marcian’s blood. It’s near the old oak at the edge of Elmwood.”
We ride out as the village wakes around us. Children wave at Garrett. He waves back, but as soon as he turns away from them the easy warmth is gone. His jaw is set, determined.
Four days old by my estimate. Dark stains on the roots of the oak, soaked deep into the bark. The canopy is too thick here and the rain hasn’t touched this spot. I crouch down, studying the splatter patterns on the trunk itself. The blood arcs too high for a fallen body.
My fingers hover over the stains without touching them. “Blood loss patterns suggest major vessel, probably the neck given the spray pattern.”
Garrett is pale as he stares and I can see him swallowing hard. He’s seen death before, hasn’t he? But there’s a difference between facing an enemy in battle and watching your own knights picked off one by one, unable to defend themselves.
My eyes follow the drag marks in the dirt leading toward the forest. The underbrush is disturbed and branches broken. Someone heavy was pulled this way. “He was taken into the woods. Still alive probably, but not for long unless someone tended to his injury.”
“How can you tell he was alive?” Garrett asks quietly.
“The drag marks are consistent with dead weight being pulled, but there are scuff marks here.” I point to shallow gouges in the dirt. “If he was already dead, the body would have been limp. These marks suggest he was conscious enough to try to resist, or at least to brace himself instinctively.”
Garrett looks like he might be sick. I realize too late that my assessment probably isn’t helping.
“We need to search the forest,” he says, his voice hard with determination.
“That could take days. Elmwood is huge.” I stand, brushing dirt from my hands. “And whoever did this had a four-day head start. The trail will be cold.”
His jaw is set with that stubborn look I’ve come to recognize. It means he’s made a decision and nothing will sway him. “We search.”
There’s no point arguing. So I nod and follow him into the woods.
We spend the rest of the morning combing through the forest, following the drag marks as far as we can.
The trail leads deep into the forest, winding between trees and over roots.
I keep my hand near my knife. There are too many places for an ambush.
The drag marks become harder to follow as we go deeper. Whoever pulled Marcian knew what they were doing. They chose paths over rocky ground where marks wouldn’t show and they used streams to hide the trail.
“Damn it,” Garrett mutters, standing on the bank and looking both ways.
The stream could go on for miles in either direction.
We circle out from the stream, looking for any sign of a body or a grave or anything that might tell us what happened to Marcian.
I look for disturbed earth and scavenger activity.
Any of the hundred small signs that death leaves behind.
We find nothing.
Either the body was moved downstream, or it was taken somewhere we can’t easily reach. The possibility makes me wary. Whoever took Marcian knows exactly how to hide a corpse. This isn’t some fucking amateur. We have a murderer who understands how to make people disappear.
By noon, we’re both exhausted and frustrated. Garrett’s fine clothes are filthy from pushing through underbrush. His golden hair is stuck with leaves and small twigs. There are mud stains on his boots and a tear in his cloak where it caught on thorns.
I have scratches on my arms from the sharp branches, my own leather is soaked from wading through the stream. We have nothing to show for it except confirmation that Marcian is almost certainly dead.
“We should head back for now,” I say reluctantly. “Rest and recalculate.”
Garrett looks like he wants to argue. He’s staring into the forest, jaw clenched like he wants to force the trees to give up their secrets.
But finally, he nods. “You’re right. We won’t find anything else out here today.”
The ride back to the village is quiet. Garrett’s shoulders are slumped. He’s taking this personally. I keep my eyes on the path ahead.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as we emerge from the tree line.
He glances at me. “Marcian was under my command and now he’s probably dead. I don’t even know why.”
“It’s not your fault,” I offer.
He’s quiet for a moment, then sighs.
We return to the inn as the sun starts its descent. Muireann takes one look at our mud-caked clothes and the grim set of Garrett’s jaw and asks no questions.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she says quietly. “I’ll send it over to your room.”
Garrett nods his thanks but doesn’t speak. We climb the stairs in silence. The room feels smaller than it did this morning. Perhaps it’s the weight of what we found and didn’t find, pressing down on us.
I check the window locks while Garrett sits heavily on the edge of the bed. He stares at his hands, still stained with dirt from searching the forest floor.
“I should wash up,” he says, but doesn’t move.
I let him sit. Sometimes people need a moment before they can keep going.
Eventually, he rises. “I should clean up.”
He disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water start, the hum of the malachite crystal powering the heat. When he emerges, his hair is damp and he’s changed into sleep clothes, but the haunted look hasn’t left his eyes.
I take my own shower quickly, washing away the forest dirt and sweat. When I come out, Garrett is already lying down, staring at the ceiling. He’s not asleep. Just... distant.
I settle into the chair by the window. Night settles over the village. Lamps flicker out one by one until only the moon provides light.
Movement behind me. The bed frame groans as Garrett pushes himself upright. “You need to rest too.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
I can feel his eyes on my back. “Wolf, calm down. What are you so afraid of?”
Everything. I don’t want to fail and get sent to the crypts.
“Come to bed, Wolf,” he whispers in the darkness.
“I told you, I don’t need—”
Another creak as he moves and I hear fabric rustling. “Please.”
The please does something to me. Garrett doesn’t beg. He commands with the expectation of being obeyed, born from a lifetime of people doing exactly what he says.
I turn from the window. Garrett is sitting up in bed, the blanket pooled around his waist. His golden hair is mussed from the pillow. He doesn’t look like the perfect commander or the golden son of House Clayborne.
The defeat in his eyes is hard to look at.
He looks exhausted. Today was a string of losses.
Searching for hours, finding only blood and drag marks.
Coming back empty-handed while one of his people is probably rotting somewhere in those woods.
The last thing he needs is me refusing him something as simple as sleep.
I don’t want to make this day worse for him and be one more thing that disappoints him today.
Wait, why the fuck do I care about how he feels?
I must maintain the distance. I’m here to protect him not here to care about him. But it seems like it’s a little too late for that. I already lost that battle weeks ago.
Because I do care about Garrett Clayborne.
“I’m cold again,” he says quietly. “Last night you were warm.”
Aw fuck. He’s not just asking me to sleep next to him. He’s asking me to hold him again.
“Wolf,” he calls my name firmly. “If you really don’t want to, I’ll accept that. But if you’re just scared...”
Scared? Fuck him.