Chapter 4
Florienne
Hope is the most dangerous weapon in the Labyrinth. Use it sparingly.”
— FOUND IN THE JOURNAL OF A FALLEN HUNTER
The Labyrinth is alive as I walk through its dark corridors.
I’m almost certain I woke up in the nemeton at its center, but the stone walls shift. Passages groan. Shadows move. I may be going around in circles. The air thickens with something damp, primal—something waiting.
Wrapped in this flimsy gown, I feel exposed and hug myself for comfort. I’m so stupid to have thought I could beat a God. What do I know about this place after being locked inside the Pen for a decade?
“I don’t need anyone,” I tell myself, ignoring the way my body trembles. “I never have.”
Yet, deep down, another voice whispers—But you did. Once.
Pounding footsteps grow louder. Low, guttural voices. A laugh, sharp and eager. Hunters.
The impact is sudden. Brutal.
A body slams into me from behind, knocking the breath from my lungs. Before I can react, I’m shoved back—driven hard against the icy wall. The black moss squelches against my arms, clinging to my skin. It looks like blood in the moonlight. Feels like flesh.
I twist, pushing back, but he’s too heavy. Too solid. Hot breath seeps down my neck—the stench of wine, sweat, and old meat.
“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs. His hands roam without hesitation. “Didn’t think I’d find a bride so soon.”
Not the Baron’s man. Not an assassin. Just a regular hunter.
My body is not for him to take. My blood is my own.
If he tries, I’ll end him.
One cut to my palm, one smear of blood against his lips—his body would wither in seconds. His body will forget how to live. But if my blood can create life, and it can also take… is it ever truly a gift? Or a warning? The Goddess abandoned us for a reason.
I exhale sharply, forcing control. Not yet. Not like this.
I go limp, a deliberate easing, to make him believe I’ve stopped resisting.
He falls for it immediately. His grip shifts—less like a predator pinning prey, more like a man savoring his prize.
His breath becomes uneven and shallow. Good.
I let my fingers twitch against his chest, merely a touch, enough to make him think it was instinct rather than intent.
My voice comes soft, coaxing, meant to feed his greed rather than challenge it.
“You’re bold,” I murmur.
“I’m—”
An arrow embeds in his throat.
A wet, choking gasp.
He collapses, twitching. I have little time to react before another hunter arrives. Another arrow. A thud. A gurgle. His body hits the stone.
I drop to a crouch, heart hammering, pulse roaring in my ears.
I try to scan the shadows for the archer, but it’s all red-lit shapes and stone walls shrouded in mist. I don’t wait to find out who is watching me and launch deeper into the Labyrinth, lungs burning, bare feet stinging.
I lose all sense of direction. It feels like the walls are closing in.
A groaning, grating sound fills the air seconds before the walls shift, pushing me in a direction I don’t choose.
An echo of laughter fades into the night when I turn into a dead end. I skid to a stop, chest heaving, and hit a wall with my palms. “No!”
Behind me, the path seals itself with a low, grinding growl. Vegetation and foliage rise over the walls, shuddering in the darkness as they grow. Thorns and brittle vines mix with strange glossy leaves shaped like hearts. There’s no way back.
Something thuds behind me—boots landing on flagstones—and I pivot, slamming straight into another wall, this one made of sweat-slicked flesh. Iron fingers clamp around my wrist.
“That was sloppy, girl,” the hunter sneers. “You should watch your back even with a wall behind you.”
A thin, dark line appears along his throat when he backs me up against the icy wall. I think absurdly that his smile is in the wrong place, and then I hear a wet, gurgling choke. He claws at his neck. Blood streams from the wound in ribbons. Two seconds later, he’s dead.
His corpse pins me against the wall. I cry out, hating how I sound so feminine and weak. It’s not me. I’m strong. I’m—ew gross. I have a face full of sweaty, gaping, bloody neck wound. It’s in my mouth. My stomach heaves.
A boot descends from above and kicks the body off me.
Fresh air whooshes in. I devour it as a figure drops from above, landing on silent feet. Thunder claps and lightning strikes, illuminating the tiny boxed-in space—and my savior. I think my mind has separated from my body. That’s my only explanation for not running.
The Huntsman and I lock eyes. It’s wrong. Different. My memories paint those eyes as dead, empty, and cruel. When did they become so alive and… wild? And he’s shouting at me, asking me something.
Stone grinds around us, scraping and sliding against our bodies as walls shift, opening new passageways into the Labyrinth.
Blinking, I come back to myself. Self-preservation kicks in. I turn, and I run.
He is the only person who has ever contradicted my logic like this. Not even Kasaros himself had this effect.
I don’t know where I’m going but away is good. Not long after, a group of male shouts echo somewhere close. My steps slow down. The walled passage I’m in leads to a T-junction. Three men jog past. The first two don’t look, but the third glances down my path and does a double-take.
I am a white flag in the darkness.
“brIDE!” he bellows and tries to stop, but skids out of view.
A strong hand locks around my arm and yanks me to the side.
I am shoved toward a wall covered in vines.
I brace for pain but am pushed through the foliage and into a narrow crevice between two walls.
I barely scrape in. My thorny tiara catches on roots and rips through my hair.
The smell of stone, mold, and wet foliage fills my nose.
A large, warm body squeezes into the tiny space, and now I smell leather, cedar oil, and, strangely—confusingly—apples.
The Huntsman presses his warm body against mine, pinning me to the wall. I didn’t realize how cold I was until now. He corrects the curtain of vines to cover our tracks.
“Don’t move.” His whisper is so low and guttural that it rumbles from his chest to mine. His painted smile is inches from my mouth—the fabric flutters with his warm breath.
He killed my best friend.
Fear and sorrow empower me. I buck, fight, and try to bite, but he is a force of nature holding me still.
The emotions linking me to Drayven’s death are so deeply ingrained that it feels as if I lost him just yesterday. There is no hope. I’m done for. I open my mouth to scream because I’d rather face two hundred hunters than this man.
Boots thud nearby.
“Be quiet.” His hand clamps over my mouth. “For once in your life, listen to me.”
I thrash my head, and a muffled sound leaks out. His hand presses harder, and I bite his fingers. Salty. Calloused. Apples. The whites of his eyes flash, and he lets go. I suck in a deep, triumphant breath, ready to unleash the full force of my lungs.
But then he grunts, “Fuck it.”
And kisses me.
No, it’s not just a kiss. The Huntsman doesn’t ease in and seduce.
He crushes his masked lips against mine and takes.
I gasp, and he devours the advantage, deepening the kiss so far as his mask allows.
His hands cup my face and hold me steady.
His tongue invades and seeks—hits my tongue against the silk, and he groans.
The sound is so damn sexual, so perfectly male, that my hormones respond without my permission.
I’ve never experienced this kind of hunger in another before, this kind of yearning—for me.
Wrong. This is wrong.
But he smells good. Male. Safe. And… apples.
My fingers curl around his collar. I draw him closer, needing more of that scent, needing to know why. A memory slams into me, Drayven at fourteen, pressing against my spine in an orchard.
“You’re holding it wrong, Flori.”
The scent of apples. His warmth at my back. The way he says my name, all amused affection.
“Here, let me show you.” His hand slides down my arm to the dagger in my amateur grip. “By the blade, Flori, not the hilt.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Keep showing me what to do.
He scoffs. “If you truly want to join the military with me, learn to take orders.”
He helps adjust my aim for a green apple balanced on a stack of crates.
His hands are sure and steady. I struggle to concentrate on his instructions, but words like ‘target longer’ and ‘hilt first’ resonate.
When he steps back, I throw and hit the apple dead center.
It flies off the crate and embeds itself on the tree trunk behind it.
His whoop of triumph is louder than mine. “You did it!”
“Of course I did,” I shoot back, fighting my grin. “I knew how to do it all along.”
“Sure you did.” He strolls to the apple and picks it up. The pieces split in his fingers, and he laughs. “Admit it. You need my help.”
“As if I’ll ever admit to—” He wedges the apple between my teeth, shutting me up with an arch to his brow.
“What was that?” he prompts, placing his hand behind his ear. “Thank you, oh wise one?”
When I return to myself, I find the Huntsman’s forehead pressed against mine. He is tense and breathing low through his nose, half growling and ragged. His fingers flex on my shoulders like he’s fighting to let go, but can’t.
Drayven is dead.
Dead.
Because of him.
“Get off me.” I shove him hard, but he doesn’t budge. He is as solid as the walls wedging us. I choke up, shake my head, and wipe the impression of him from my lips. My thorn tiara slips further. I try to fix it but can’t focus. My hair pulls and tangles, and I stifle a whimper.
His warm, large hand envelops mine. The sensation sends a wave of comfort through my body, but my mind rebels.
Ultimately, I do nothing but stand still while he adjusts my tiara, his fingers trembling yet determined to untangle the mess.
Nothing about him matches my memory except that mask.
I hate that it’s making me hesitate. I hate that his touch is so caring.
“Do you even think about the women whose lives you ruin?” I whisper. “Or the ones who try to protect them. The ones they loved. I hate you.”
His eyes widen. “You what?”
“I hate you.”
My words snap something inside him. His shoulders deflate. “I know.”
Then he is gone, dashing through the foliage.
Moments later, I hear the sounds of a brutal battle.
The three hunters must have been nearby, waiting.
Wet crunches of blades meet flesh. Gurgling, choking, and bones breaking.
Three men fight for their lives but don’t stand a chance.
The Huntsman dispatches them without mercy, reminding me of who he really is.
My fists clench so hard that my nails bite into my palms. Heavy footsteps get closer, louder. The veil of foliage rustles, and I tense, ready to fling my welling blood in his eyes. But the Huntsman remains outside.
“Go on,” I taunt. “Do it. Kill me.”
“You think that’s what I want?” His voice is low, edged with something unreadable.
“I know what you are.”
“What am I?”
“A monster.”
His breath catches. I think I’ve hit a nerve, but then he growls, “Run, Flori. While you still can.”
I don’t run. I leap through the curtain of vines straight toward him, intending to—I don’t know—rip his mask off or something.
My logic still hasn’t returned. But he’s already scaling the wall.
He crests the top, pivots, and crouches.
I can’t see his eyes beneath the hood anymore, but he stares for a beat longer and then melts into the shadows.
The blood moon breaks free from storm clouds and sheds light on the carnage he left behind. It was a massacre. Limbs were ripped from bodies. Bowels eviscerated. A single rose grows from the cracks between flagstones.
Gasping, I touch the fragile petals with trembling fingers.
Drayven once tried to take a rose, a piece of me left behind, but the Huntsman trampled over it.
Did I bleed that much, or is this from something else?
Why would he leave a rose standing? Why would he keep me safe when he’s never cared before?
It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. He’s Kasaros’s servant and likely just messing with me. If he has obsessive feelings for me, I know how to handle it.
I pluck the rose and fit it into my hair. If the Huntsman wants to play games, fine. But let’s see how well he handles being played.