Chapter Four
Beatrice
Maeve is all sunshine this morning, standing beside the wagon with her hair braided and looped in gold cord. She laughs at something Dakar says as he is packing and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear with a soft smile.
I watch her from the edge of the drying line where clean linens flap like sails between us. My hands fumble with the clothespins, pretending to be doing something when I’m really just stalling, trying to gather the courage to say goodbye without wounding my pride completely.
We haven’t spoken since our fight. But now, she’s about to ride off with her warlord on a new adventure, and my heart twists sharply in my chest. I don’t want her to leave without knowing I don’t hate her. I could never hate her.
I step out from behind the linens and walk straight toward her. She looks at me when I’m halfway there, and her smile falters.
“Beatrice?” She says my name almost like a question.
She shifts as if she’s bracing for another argument.
I walk up to her and, before I can talk myself out of it, I wrap my arms around her.
She stiffens instantly, and for a breath, I think she might push me off.
But then she melts, slowly, like snow on warm stone, her arms folding around me.
I smell the rosemary oil in her hair, and my throat tightens.
I don’t know what to say. Just, “Take care of yourself.”
She pulls back enough to look at me, eyes wide. “You too, Bea. I’ll see you when I get back.”
I give her a half smile. “I’ll be here.” I lie as Dakar helps her climb into the cart. I don’t watch her leave. I just turn and walk away before I start crying.
The healer’s cottage smells like crushed pine and lavender oil and something sweetly sour.
It’s warm inside despite the open door, a thin breeze stirring the pale curtains.
Annie is bent over the central table, sleeves rolled, her curls tied back in a loose ribbon that’s already coming undone.
She’s working on a poultice, fingers stained green, face pinched in focus as she grinds leaves into a paste with her small mortar and pestle.
She’s completely in her element, and for a second, I don’t want to interrupt her. She’s already found her place here. I wish I could say the same.
She glances up just as I step inside. “Oh, hi, Beatrice.” She gives me a sweet smile like she is genuinely happy to see me. Annie is the only one who ever looks at me that way.
“Didn’t expect you.”
I shrug like I don’t know why I’m here. “I wanted to see how things were going. Thought you might need someone to mock your herbal skills.”
She snorts. “You wouldn’t know comfrey from cow dung.”
My mouth drops open a little, then I grin. Annie is making fun of me? That’s new. She doesn’t throw jokes like that around, especially at someone else’s expense. Seeing her this comfortable is…nice.
“That’s probably true, but I know a fire hazard when I see one. Is that cauldron supposed to be boiling over like that?”
She yelps and rushes to the little stove in the corner, lifting the bubbling pot off the flame and muttering something under her breath.
I stay near the door, leaning against the frame with my arms folded.
She moves like she’s been here forever, not just a few months.
She seems to have memorized every drawer and shelf, and I feel an aching feeling that whispers, You could’ve had this too, if you didn’t ruin everything.
She turns back, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s going on?”
I blink. “Nothing.”
“Bea.”
“I just…wanted to check on you. In case things get busy.”
She frowns, head tilting. “Why would things get busy? The union thing? I’m not going. I told them I’d stay and help Elda.”
I nod a little too quickly. “Right. Of course. I just…wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“You’re acting strange.” Her eyes narrow at me.
“I’ve had a strange few months.”
“You’re not going to do anything reckless, right?”
“Have I ever?”
“Yes,” she says instantly, and I almost laugh.
I look around the room, at the drying herbs, the neatly labeled jars, anywhere but her scrutinizing gaze.
I feel a sudden, crushing guilt that I can’t tell her the truth.
That I’m leaving tonight, and I might never see her again.
That I’d rather face the wilds and whatever’s out there than stay here and be stuck mated to some moronic Bull. But, I can’t say any of that.
So instead, I reach out and touch her wrist.
“I’ll see you later, Annie.”
Her brows furrow. “Okay, I’ll see you at supper.”
I don’t hug her or tell her I love her like a sister, because that might make me burst into tears.
The last wagon creaks out through the southern gate, its wheels kicking up a slow swirl of dust behind it. I stay tucked in the shadow of the drying line, eyes narrowed, arms folded tight across my chest.
Good. Let them all ride off into their happily ever afters. I hope they get splinters.
Turning on my heel, I head toward the orchard path behind the barracks. Everything’s ready. My satchel’s hidden, my escape planned. By nightfall, I’ll be gone.
I should go back inside and keep my head down until it’s time. Instead, my feet drift toward the one place I really shouldn’t be—the training yard.
It’s not even like I mean to go there. I just…often end up near it. Totally by accident. Mostly.
I slow when I hear the clack of wooden weapons, the grunt of impact. The calves are out. Young Minotaurs with awkward limbs and half-grown horns, sweating under the weight of their own spears. They’re trying their best, and even I have to admit that they’re adorable.
And there he is.
Silas moves through them, correcting their stances with a gentle hand.
His dark hair, half-tied back, clings to his neck with sweat.
His rolled sleeves expose forearms corded with muscle as he adjusts a calf’s grip on a spear.
He doesn’t raise his voice or lose his patience with any of them.
One of the smallest boys trips over his own feet, and Silas is there in an instant, crouching beside him.
The low, rumbling timbre of his voice makes my pulse spike. “Again. You’ve got this.”
The calf beams, and Silas—fuck him—smiles back. Just a small quirk of his lips, but it hits me like a punch to the gut.
I shift against the apple tree I’m leaning on, suddenly too aware of the rough bark against my back, the way my thighs press together.
His shirt clings to his chest, damp and obscene, outlining every ridge of muscle.
I imagine peeling it off with my teeth, licking the salt from his skin, feeling that powerful body shudder under my touch—
No! Gods! What is wrong with you?
I dig my nails into my palms. He’s the enemy. Dakar’s second. The one who’ll hunt me down when he’s realized I’ve run.
He stands, turning, and his gaze finds me.
Those dark eyes lock onto mine like he already knows I’ve been watching, knows I’m wet, knows I’m lying to myself.
My breath catches, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to the space between us. His nostrils flare, as if he can smell my arousal.
I push off the tree, annoyed at the warmth pooling low in my belly.
So, he’s decent with kids. So, what? Doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole.
I bolt down the path.
Stupid. Stupid.
I don’t look back, but the image of him lingers—the sweat on his chest, the way his hands would feel dragging up my thighs, the rough growl of his voice in my ear.
“Get a grip, Bea!” I scold myself under my breath.
I’m leaving! Tonight!