Chapter 8 The Hunter’s Game
The Hunter's Game
Talon
Dawn barely lights the horizon when I sit up, careful not to disturb the girl curled in my arms. Raisa. I could roll her name on my tongue forever and never tire of the taste.
She sleeps like she means it, boneless, mouth parted, her hair snarled across her eyes, one palm pressed to my chest like a promise. She smells of sex and woodsmoke, as if the last few days with us have marked her in ways that can’t ever be undone.
I want to lick the sleep off her skin, but I don’t.
Instead, I pull my arm free and rise, leaving her with a handful of my heat in the nest of blankets.
Sable is already up. Of course. He’s perched on a fallen log with a knife between his teeth, whittling slivers of wood into the air and pretending not to watch me.
He grins when our eyes meet, but he doesn’t speak.
Sable knows not to poke the bear before dawn, especially when we were up half the night, buried in Raisa again.
It’s the same every night. By day, we evade the king’s men, using the forest for cover, teaching her what it means to be free. At night, we teach her what it means to be ours. We fuck and claim and come until we’re all too exhausted to move.
She’s learning quickly, casting off the trappings of the princess for something else, something new and powerful.
Her magic hums beneath her skin like a living thing, so bright it’s impossible to miss it, but she hasn’t used it yet.
I’m not sure she even knows how or even realizes it exists. We haven’t told her yet.
Some truths, she needs to discover on her own.
I stalk away from the camp, rolling my shoulders, shaking out the ache from last night’s excesses. My body is still a thing of war, even when it’s soft for her.
The forest wraps around me, familiar and feral. The ground is a tangle of roots and frost, the air cold enough to cut glass.
The curse whispers, its demand growing fainter every day we spend with her. But the rage still simmers, bubbling as hot and fierce as ever. This is what I am. Bone and sinew. Blade and fury. My brothers joke that I was born with a knife in one hand and a grudge in the other. Maybe they’re right.
It doesn’t matter.
Today, the only weapon I care about is the one I’ve made for Raisa.
I fish it from my pack, where I hid it, wrapped in a scrap of soft leather.
The bow is half the size of mine, but the string sings under my thumb.
I’ve carved her name in runes only she and I will ever understand, right beneath the grip.
The wood is yew, the color of dried blood.
She deserves steel, but wood is warmer, more forgiving. She’s not ready for steel.
Yet.
I run my hands over it again and again, unable to stop. This isn’t a gift. It’s a test. If she’s going to survive out here, she needs to become something else, not a girl or a princess, but a monster like us. I can show her how. I want to show her how.
Behind me, Sable whistles, a low, two-note warning. I turn to find Raisa up, wrapped in a blanket, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She looks like she’s been dragged through a dozen dreams and come out hungry on the other side.
There’s dirt on her knees and fresh bite marks on her thighs. The sight makes something inside me twist and catch.
“You’re awake,” she says. Her voice is a little rough, which I love. There’s no princess in it, just woman.
“I am,” I say, then offer her the bow. She blinks and then takes it, her fingers tentative at first, then hungry. The moment her skin brushes mine, my heart kicks so hard I nearly laugh.
“What’s this?” she asks, but she already knows. She’s not stupid. Just new.
“For you,” I say. “Try not to break it.”
She smiles. It’s shy, but not the old kind of shy. It’s the kind that knows I want her. The kind that likes knowing it.
“It’s beautiful,” she says. “Did you make it?”
“Who else would?” I want to sound cocky, but it comes out hoarse. She’s still looking at the bow, tracing the runes with her thumb. Her hands are strong, not like a princess at all.
I want to see them on me again. I want to feel them raking trails of blood into my skin. Instead, I step back and nod to the trees.
“Come on. Time to learn what it’s for.”
We leave the camp behind, Sable watching us with that shit-eating grin until we vanish into the woods. While we’re gone, my brothers will keep watch. They’ll shift, and they’ll kill. Whatever it takes to ensure the men following us don’t find her before we’re ready.
The sun is barely up, but I can see just fine. So can she, apparently. She keeps pace, dodging every root and stone with a kind of wild grace.
Today she’s in Bran’s old shirt and a pair of pants that used to be Sable’s, tied with twine at the waist. The effect is criminal. I want to bend her over a stump and fuck her until she screams.
But not yet. First, the lesson.
“You know how to use that?” I ask, nodding at the bow.
“I’ve seen it done.”
“Seen it done isn’t the same as doing it.” I let my voice go sharp. She needs to know that I’m neither her lover nor her tutor today. For now, I’m the wolf at her throat.
She flinches, but then her jaw sets. “Then show me.”
I can’t help but grin. “You’re not scared?”
She doesn’t answer, just lifts the bow and notches an imaginary arrow. The stance is all wrong—too stiff, elbows high, shoulders locked. She’s thinking too much.
I circle her slowly, picking apart every flaw. “You’ll break your arm with that draw. And your grip is shit.”
“Then fix it,” she snaps, a hint of fire in her eyes.
I step behind her, close enough to feel the heat pouring off her back. I slide my hands over her arms, pressing her shoulders down, adjusting her elbows, curling her fingers just right. My palms swallow hers whole. She trembles but doesn’t pull away
I smell her—fear and anticipation, and something that’s just Raisa. It makes my teeth ache.
“Breathe from here,” I say, touching her stomach. “Not from your chest. You’re not running from a bear. You’re hunting one.”
She breathes, deep and slow. The air expands her belly, pushing against my hand. I want to rip the shirt off her, but instead I let go and step back.
“Again,” I say.
This time, she moves better, more fluid. She’s still thinking, but I see the beginnings of the beast in her.
We practice for a while, no arrows, just motion. The rhythm is hypnotic. Draw, aim, release. Draw, aim, release.
She gets better fast.
Every time she glances at me for approval, I just nod, pretending it’s nothing, even though I want to fuck her against the tree.
When I think she’s ready, I reach into my satchel and pull out a handful of arrows. I hand her one, then notch another to my own bow.
“Follow me,” I say.
We move through the woods, every step a lesson, just like every other day. I point out scat, broken twigs, the faintest curl of fur snagged on a thorn.
She watches like always, absorbing everything. There’s a sharpness to her now. The woods are remaking her in their image.
I want to see how far they can take her.
We stalk a deer for nearly an hour before we find it—a young buck, stupid and slow, grazing in a clearing. I freeze, raising one fist, and she mimics me, crouching low. She’s close enough that her hair brushes my arm.
“There,” I whisper, barely moving my lips.
She nods silently. I can see the tremor in her hands, but she lifts the bow, draws it, her breath steady.
The deer lifts its head, ears twitching, but we’re downwind and the world is still.
I wait for her to ask if she should shoot, but she doesn’t. She just breathes, aims, and lets go.
The arrow flies wild, skimming past the buck’s haunch. The animal bolts, white tail twitching as it vanishes into the trees.
Raisa sags, disappointment carving lines around her perfect mouth.
I nudge her shoulder, grinning like an idiot. “First shot always misses,” I say. “You’ll do better next time.”
She looks at me, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You’re not mad?”
I laugh, loud enough to startle a bird from its nest. “Why would I be mad? You almost had it.”
She grins back, all teeth.
We track the deer. It’s easier now. Fear leaves a trail even an idiot could follow. Raisa is silent, moving through the woods like she’s always belonged here. We lose sight of the animal, but I’m not worried. There’s more game out here than we could eat in a year.
After a while, we stop to rest. She sits on a boulder, breathing hard, her arms limp at her sides. I watch her, my chest tight, wanting her in ways I can’t name.
“What?” she asks, defensive.
“You did good,” I say.
A flush rises on her neck. “I missed.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I look away, pretending to scan the woods. “You’ll get it next time.”
She stands, brushing the dirt from her pants. “Thank you,” she says. The words are soft, almost lost in the wind.
“For what?”
“For this,” she says. “For treating me like I can handle it.”
My heart stutters, just once.
“You can handle anything,” I say. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
She smiles, all shy princess again. “Even you?”
I step closer, crowding her against the boulder. My hands bracket her hips, pinning her in place. Our bodies are inches apart, and I can feel her pulse thrumming through her skin. “Especially me.”
For a second, I think she’ll pull away. But she lifts her chin, daring me to move first.
I press my lips to her temple, just once. It’s not a kiss. It’s a promise.
She shivers, but it’s not from the cold.
“Ready to try again?” I ask, pulling back.
She nods. “This time I won’t miss.”
“Damn right you won’t,” I say.
The world sharpens as we walk. Raisa keeps up, her breathing barely louder than mine.
The forest is awake now—birds chirping, mice rustling under dead leaves, dew glistening on every blade of grass—but none of it matters except the trail in front of us.
Every patch of mud, every snapped branch, every drop of piss on the bark is a sentence in a story.