Chapter 8 The Hunter’s Game #2
I teach her how to read it as we go. Not in words—words are for Bran—but with small gestures, the way I point or tilt my head or slow my step.
She learns quickly.
The next time we spot the buck, it’s in a hollow, up to its knees in a tangle of ferns. The animal is young, but already cocky, tossing its head every few seconds like it’s daring the woods to come at it.
We drop to our bellies and crawl the last ten paces, the ground cold under our palms.
I put a hand on Raisa’s lower back, feeling the muscles jump under my touch. She stiffens, then relaxes, waiting for my next move.
I lean in, so close my lips brush the shell of her ear. “Breathe slow,” I whisper. “Two beats. Hold on the exhale. Then let it fly.”
She nods and raises the bow. The string trembles, hungry for the shot.
I watch her, not the deer. The little line between her brows, the way she licks her lips before drawing. She’s beautiful, but there’s something harder under her skin now, as if the princess is dying, and the monster is being born.
She lines up the shot. Lets it go.
The arrow whips through the air and buries itself in the earth a foot to the left of the buck’s heart. The animal jolts, then vanishes in a thunder of hooves.
Raisa sags, her whole body deflating.
I ruffle her hair. “You were closer than last time.”
She glares at me, but I see the pride in her eyes.
We follow the tracks, moving faster now, ducking through brambles and old logs. The buck is bleeding—just enough to leave a trail behind.
Raisa sees the first drop, and her whole face changes.
“You did that,” I say, pointing at the tiny red bead on a leaf. “It means you’re a real hunter now.”
She grins, and I want to bite her.
We catch up with the animal in a shallow ravine, its legs trembling and its sides heaving. His flank is coated with blood. It’s not a clean shot by any means, but she hit it.
Raisa lifts the bow, then lowers it, hesitating. “I don’t want it to suffer,” she says, her voice shaking, a little of the old princess bleeding through.
“Then finish it,” I say.
She draws, breathes, and then fires. The arrow hits true, right behind the ear. The buck drops, dead before it hits the ground.
She stands over it, her bow at her side, her face pale and eyes wide. I come up behind her, my hand heavy on her shoulder.
“It’s good work,” I say.
“Is it always like this?” she asks, her whole body shaking.
I think about lying, but don’t. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
She doesn’t cry, just nods and swallows it down.
We kneel to claim the kill. I show her how to cut the throat, how to say thank you in a way that means something. She does it without flinching, her hands steady.
She’s changing before my eyes.
We’re about to drag the carcass up the bank when the wind shifts, and I smell them—three men, moving quickly.
My hackles go up, instinct kicking me in the ribs.
“Down,” I hiss, yanking Raisa behind a rotten log. I crouch over her, shielding her with my body, an arrow notched and ready.
The men come into view less than three minutes later, moving cautiously but not cautiously enough. They’re Gallagher’s men, all armed, all looking for something.
They stop at the ravine, staring down at the buck like it’s a sign from the gods.
The tallest one—the leader—points to the ground. “Fresh blood,” he says, his voice a whipcrack in the silence. “Whoever did it is close.”
Raisa tenses under me, her heart banging like a war drum. I want to kill the men here and now, but I force myself to wait.
I grip her hand hard. She looks up at me, her eyes huge and terrified.
“Don’t move,” I mouth.
She nods, but I can see the fight in her, the refusal to go quietly. She’s made a feast of freedom now, and she won’t go back to living on scraps.
The leader motions the other two forward. They spread out, one circling left, the other right. The leader stays put, scanning the woods. I can see the whites of his eyes from here.
I could kill him from this distance. Easy.
But Raisa’s hand is trembling in mine, and I know what will happen if we get caught. They’ll drag her back to the king, and my brothers and I will be lucky if we ever see her again.
I can’t risk it.
The scout on the right gets too close. He steps over our log, less than a foot from Raisa’s head. I hold my breath.
His boots crunch the leaves.
Raisa’s breathing goes shallow, almost silent. She smells like sweat and fear, and it’s intoxicating.
The scout stops. He tilts his head, listening.
I squeeze Raisa’s hand, willing her not to move. Her fingers lock around mine.
He circles back, his eyes scanning the perimeter, his face twisted in suspicion. I recognize the look. It means he’s about to do something stupid.
I count the seconds in my head: one, two, three—
Raisa tenses under me, her breath coming fast, but I keep her pressed flat with one arm. My other hand drifts to the knife at my hip. The bow will take too long. I need this done quickly.
The man pauses, turns, cocks his head.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I explode upward, catching him by the throat as I clear the log. The knife goes in, silent and sure. He doesn’t even get to scream. He just blinks, mouth open, the color draining from his face as I lower him—slow, so there’s no sound—into the dirt.
I’m already moving, decades of violence burning through me. The effects of the curse rise swiftly, called forth by blood. It screams for me to find wing and feather. I resist it, battling to retain this form.
The second man is at the edge of the hollow, his sword half-drawn. He spots me, but only because I want him to. I let him see the blood on my hands. Let him taste the violence I wear like a second skin.
He draws, a shout burning in his chest.
I meet him in two strides, ducking his wild swing. He’s strong but slow. I slip under his guard, driving my shoulder into his gut and lifting him clean off his feet.
He gasps, losing the blade. I catch his arm at the elbow, and the bone pops with a sound like a branch breaking in a storm.
He screams then, raw and high.
I slap my hand over his mouth, press him to a tree, and drive the knife in, right where his heart sits.
He’s dead before he finishes sagging to the ground.
The third man is smarter than the others. He doesn’t come at me. He runs.
I chase, fighting the demands of the curse to shift, to use claw and beak to tear his throat out.
He’s fast, but I’m faster. I catch him by the collar before he’s gone twenty paces.
He claws at my face, drawing blood.
I laugh, smashing his head into the nearest trunk once, twice, three times.
I drop him, watching the blood pool around his ears.
I stand there, chest heaving, knife in hand. Every part of me is shaking, but not with fear. With rage. With the force of keeping myself in this body when the curse screams for the other.
I check the woods, looking for more. But there’s no one. Just the wet sound of blood dripping onto old leaves.
Raisa makes a soft sound behind me.
I whirl, ready for the worst.
She’s crouched by the log, her hands over her head, but her eyes are wide and bright. She’s not crying. She’s not even breathing hard.
She sees me—sees the blood, the knife, the way my body vibrates—and she gets up, hurrying toward me.
I expect her to flinch, to turn away. I wouldn’t blame her.
Instead, she puts her hand on my arm, soft but unyielding.
And just like that, the rage drains out of me. The demands of the curse fall silent, as if smothered by whatever magic she possesses.
I stare at her, waiting for the disgust, the fear, the accusations. But they never come.
I drop the knife, looking away. I want to explain, but there are no words.
“We should move their bodies,” she says eventually, her voice steady.
I nod and drag them into the ravine, where she helps cover them with rocks and branches. It’s dirty work, but she doesn’t complain.
When we’re done, my hands are shaking again, but for a different reason.
I want to put her on her knees, right here in the mud and blood, and have her worship the battle rage out of me. Every cell in my body howls for her. Her skin, her breath, her soft, yielding mouth.
I try to turn away, to give myself a second to cool off, but her hand is on my arm, burning through my flesh straight to the bone.
She looks up at me, her gray eyes clear, fearless. She lifts her chin, as if daring me to do it. Daring me to take what I want.
I snap.
I grab her by the waist, hauling her up against the nearest tree. Her legs spread around mine, her hands fisted in the front of my shirt. I pin her there, one palm over her sternum, pressing hard enough to make her gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” I snarl.
She shakes her head, smiling that new, dangerous smile. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers.
My hands are everywhere, her face, her hair, her throat. I want to bruise her with my desire. I want to wreck her so thoroughly she forgets she was ever anything but mine and my brothers’.
I kiss her, hard, teeth, tongue…more violence than sweetness. She opens for me, the whimper in her throat a sound of pure surrender.
I slip my hand down the front of her borrowed shirt, her nipple tight and ready for me. I twist, just to watch her squirm. She arches into the pain like it’s something holy.
“You’re filthy,” I murmur, my mouth against her ear. I’m shaking, my blood still hot from the kill.
“So are you,” she pants back.
I rip the shirt open—it’s not mine, and Bran can go get fucked—and push it down her arms until her breasts are exposed to the air. Her skin is marked, a galaxy of bruises and bites from the last few nights.
I want to leave more.
I drop to my knees, teeth to her stomach, biting down hard enough to leave an imprint. She moans, dragging my mouth up to her breast.
“Do it,” she whispers, her voice a challenge. “I know you want to.”