Chapter 6
Florienne
— SCRATCHED OUT ANNOTATION, AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Rain beads on my skin, but it’s not a downpour. It’s a tease—a promise. The Labyrinth walls stretch high above me, dark and slick with moss.
After a few minutes of silence, I stop moving and listen. Feel.
He’s here.
I don’t have to see him to know. The intensity of his gaze is thick, curling around me like a second skin.
The Huntsman is watching. He’s always watching.
I shiver, not from my drenched, thin clothes but from something deeper, something darker. A thrill that should not exist in a place like this.
The first hunter rounds the corner. He is a brutish man with eager hands and dull eyes. He holds his flaming torch high to see me better. I tilt my head, letting the light catch the glint of my tattoos—the delicate inked script of the feminine mysteries. He hesitates.
“Lost, little bride?” His voice is thick with amusement, with lust. He steps closer, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade.
I step forward, too, slow and deliberate, like I have all the time in the world. “Not lost. Just waiting for my king.”
He tracks my approach, his wide-eyed gaze dipping to my lips and throat. Men are so predictable. He thinks I’m vulnerable. He all but salivates over it.
My fingers trail down my arm, a subtle, teasing motion, and his breath hitches.
Behind me, unseen, the Huntsman seethes. I know because I feel it in the way the air thickens, the barely leashed violence rolling off him in waves. The man in front of me doesn’t realize he’s already dead.
But I’m not ready for this game to end. I want to torture my stalker some more.
Another step. Another glance. I lift my wet hair from my shoulders, intending to wring it dry, but accidentally-on-purpose catch the shoulder of my flimsy gown.
“Oops,” I giggle and turn to fix myself—facing the Huntsman’s shadowed direction, checking to see if he makes himself known.
It’s all shadows and murky mist, but I’m almost sure I hear a growl of frustration, or, perhaps, warning.
He doesn’t like me playing with the hunter.
When I turn back to him, his fingers twitch on the torch, itching to grab me.
“You want me, don’t you?” I murmur, watching his pupils blow wide as he nods. “Poor thing. You don’t realize I let you get this close. Perhaps if you kneel, swear fealty, I might allow you a small touch.”
A wicked defiance—or thrill—flickers in his gaze. It’s hard to tell at this point.
He growls and reaches for me, but I lift my finger and scold him, “Uh-uh. First, you kneel.”
“How about first, I fuck—”
A gust of wind, a whisper of steel, and then the man before me is gasping, clawing at the arrow lodged deep in his throat. The torch falls with the man, and I jump back to avoid sparks.
“So you are eliminating the competition,” I shout at the shadows.
I can’t see but feel his brows rising indignantly.
“Admit it!” I press.
“You think that was for me?” His gravelly voice makes me shiver.
“Who else?” I shoot back, my fists clenching. “There’s only one reason a man enters the Hunt. Why not just take me now? Be done with it.”
“That wasn’t for me, sweetheart.”
My pulse skips. I shouldn’t like that endearment on his lips, but it heats me up. I tell myself I’m reacting this way because my body is confused. It connects him to Drayven’s memory, blending them as one. That’s all.
My gaze narrows as I search through every moving shadow for him.
There.
A glint of steel.
“You don’t like how they look at me.” I step forward but lose him again. “You don’t like the thought of them touching me. That means only one thing.”
Silence, but it’s heavy, charged. Then, a voice like gravel and thunder. “Run.”
I grin. “Make me.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
I tilt my chin up, daring him. “You started it.”
“Maybe next time, I’ll let him fuck you.”
“Maybe that’s what I wanted.”
His audible gasp annoys me. It’s as if he expected me to be pure and virginal. While technically, I am still a virgin, it’s only semantics. I’ve engaged in every other deviant sexual act under the moon. The tattoos covering my body prove it.
What does he think becomes of the women he delivers to the Pen?
I think my first assessment was correct. He’s eliminating his competition. Instead of claiming me now, he’s delaying his gratification. He wants to feel like some kind of conqueror, a knight in shining armor for a damsel.
A smile tugs at my lips. I’ll enjoy ruining his expectations, but most importantly, I’ll enjoy using him to clear my path to freedom.
I swear I hear a grumbled curse about stubbornness and trouble when a hooded figure breaks away from the darkness and stalks closer along the high wall.
The fallen torch casts enough light that I see his eyes when he crouches and points to the dead hunter behind me.
“At least have the decency to return my arrow.”
Okay. Not what I expected.
He tilts his head. “Or will you just stand there and look pretty?”
I fold my arms over my fluttering stomach. “I am not just standing here. I have a plan!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit plan. Your feet are still bare. I’ll bet they hurt, don’t they?”
I grind my teeth but refuse to answer. Of course they hurt. The ground is covered in rocks and sharp things. The moss can be slippery.
He nods at the corpse. “Take his boots.”
“I was going to do that.”
“Sure you were.”
Amusement leaks into his deep voice.
My cheeks heat, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me blush. I turn my back on him and get to work untying the hunter’s shoes, but I draw the line at stinky socks. I’ll probably regret it when blisters form.
I am stubborn. He’s right about that.
I bend over to slip on a boot, hear a choked sound from behind me, and pause. The strips of silk flowing from my hips billow in the breeze, likely revealing parts of me reserved for my new husband… parts recently waxed.
My worst trait has always been the urge to poke the bear. Especially one that tries to tell me what to do. I have a voice. Ignore me at your peril, Huntsman.
I make a show of struggling to put on my boot. I bend lower, fumble with the laces, whimper with frustration, and flip my hair as if it helps me concentrate. Then I cock my hips and work on the other boot.
His attention is palpable, a hot caress pushing against my skin. I’m not even sure he’s breathing.
A slow smile curves across my lips. By the time I’m done, the weight of his unwavering attention feels triumphant. He’s definitely attracted to me, despite his declaration he’s not in this for his own rewards. I can use this to my advantage.
I have a new pair of boots, a sheathed dagger tucked into my pink sash on one side, and a rations pouch on the other. But that’s all I take because having hunters leer at me will piss him off.
He might enjoy delaying his gratification, but the sooner we eliminate obstacles in my way, the better.
“And the coat.” The clipped order is gruff.
I don’t think he’s moved an inch from that spot on the wall.
“No.”
“Do as you’re told.”
I snort. “You don’t own me. You’re not my king.”
Silence stretches. His next words are softer. “And if I were?”
Ha! So, he does want to be king. I plant my boot on the dead man’s chest and yank the arrow from his throat.
“You want to own me?” I smirk. “Then earn me.”
I don’t know why I said that. I don’t want to be owned.
He ignores the arrow I offer him. Torchlight reflects in his eyes. Something about him looks different from this angle. His mask still wears the monstrous smile, but it no longer mocks me. It’s just a mask.
I know his game now. I’ll have an unexpected ally if I handle this right. And when it comes down to the two of us, I’ll evade him. If all else fails, I’ll have my virginal blood.
He’ll be dead before his cock spills inside me.
“You worried you’ll fall?” I tease and stretch on my tiptoes to lift the arrow higher.
Slowly, still staring at me, he reaches down and wraps his fingers around the arrow’s shaft. That’s when I notice the scars, the gnarled and knotted knuckles. My heart stops beating for a second. His hand is disfigured.
But it’s not only the scars that catch my eye. Red moonlight reveals three freckles forming a triangle near his thumb, reminding me of a time in my childhood.
The well swallows me in darkness. Water glints below like a mirror waiting to shatter. My hollow voice echoes when I call for help, each repetition smaller until silence crushes in. Night prowls closer. I wrap my arms around my scraped knees, the chill seeping into my bones.
Stupid Leander and his taunts. “Bet you can’t reach the ledge. Bet you’re too chicken.”
I’ll show him. Gritting my teeth, I brace against the slick wall. Push up. Scrabble for purchase. My fingernails crack and my palms sting as I crash back down. Hot tears threaten, but I blink them away.
“Quitting already?”
The voice jolts through me. My heart pounds as I tip my head back. Through the well’s mouth, haloed in moonlight, a boy with wheat blond hair peers down.
“My name’s Drayven,” he says, like trading names down wells is perfectly normal. “Heard you hollering clear across the village.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I wasn’t—”
“Nothing wrong with yelling.” He cocks his head, studying me. “Want me to fetch help?”
“No!” The thought of Ma’s switch makes my stomach clench. A potential bride shouldn’t be getting into adventurous scrapes. “Help is for victims. I can do it myself.”
His grin flashes white in the twilight. “Stubborn, aren’t you?” Something red gleams in his palm. “Tell you what. You climb out before sunup, and this apple’s yours. If not, I’m getting help.”
My mouth waters at the sight. “You’d really give it to me?”
“Every bite. If you earn it.”
I thrust out my chin. “Deal.”
So I try. And try. My arms scream, knees bruise, but the walls stay slick. Every inch gained becomes two lost.
Still, Drayven watches. Waits. Cheers me on until the moon slips away, stealing the last light. I slump against the stone, defeated. Dawn won’t be long. Until then, it’s so dark. Scary.
An owl’s cry pierces the silence. I hate how my eyes sting.
“Look, you gave it a good try,” Drayven says, voice soft. “Let me get help—”
“No!” I snap. “Just stay?” I finally whisper. “Talk to me? I don’t like the dark.”
“Don’t worry,” he replies. “I’ll watch over you.”
He settles at the well’s edge. We trade stories until dawn—silly tales of giants and witches. Of pirates and mermaids. His voice keeps the shadows at bay. But when dawn creeps in, he goes silent, and I panic.
“Drayven?”
No answer. Has he gone to get help? Or just gone?
With renewed determination, I manage to climb out of the well, desperate to find him. I don’t have to look far. He’s sprawled on his side, snoring.
I study him—those long lashes, freckled nose, determined jaw.
He looks like a fun friend. A loyal friend.
The apple dangles from his slack fingers.
Three little freckles near his thumb form a triangle.
They’re like a constellation. Without thinking, I tentatively trace them. He stirs, and I snatch my hand back.
The apple is mine. I earned it fair and square.
I snag the fruit and take a defiant bite. The sweetness explodes on my tongue as blue eyes snap open inches from my face. They crinkle at the corners. I ease back onto my haunches as he props up on an elbow, hair all mussed.
“Morning, Stubborn Girl,” he drawls, rubbing his eyes.
“Florienne,” I mumble through my mouthful. “That’s my name.”
“Florienne.” He rolls my name around his mouth, tasting it. “May I call you Flori?”
“S’pose,” I say, then grin. “I told you I’d get out.”
“But not before sunup.” He holds out his hand to me, palm up, eyes crinkling.
For some reason, I think he wants to hold my hand and we can play games, so I slide my free hand into his. Warm affection blooms in my chest as we lock eyes. He seems startled, unsure, but he doesn’t let go. Neither do I. We share a moment of awareness, of new a friendship forged.
My only friendship.
But then he yanks me closer until I lose my balance. He steals the apple, bites into the red flesh, and chews around his cheeky grin. “Better luck next time.”
My eyes lock on the three freckles. They’re darker now, weathered by sun and time and warped by the scars. Scars that came after his hand was crushed.
It can’t be him.
Impossible.
But my treacherous heart thunders against my ribs, recognizing something in his presence that my mind refuses to acknowledge. The way he moves, the subtle tilt of his head when he listens—echoes of a boy I once knew.
“Drayven?” I whisper.
“Who?” He glowers and lifts to stand, wipes the blood from the arrow, and returns it to the quiver at his hip. Drizzle pitter-patters on his hood. He sends a lingering stare my way, deepens his scowl, and prowls away along the wall.
My heart sinks. I was so sure… maybe the shadows are playing with my eyes, or—
A beastly growl rumbles nearby.
What was that?
“Shit.” The Huntsman quickly nocks an arrow and jogs back toward me, scanning the surrounding darkness. “Go.”
His bowstring creaks as it’s pulled taut, and he aims behind me. “Don’t make me tell you twice,” he shouts. “Godsdammit, run!”
A nightmarish creature crawls over the opposite wall on disjointed legs. Its claws click against the masonry, making a rattling sound. Glowing red eyes lock on me and hold.
My heart leaps into my throat. My gaze darts left and right. Which way?
“Left!” the Huntsman barks.
The beast jumps off the wall to our right. The Huntsman leaps across the expanse to meet it, his bow twanging as he releases. A red eye blinks out. The monster’s screech is one of fury, not so much one of pain. That’s all I register, and then I’m pushing all my energy into my legs.
I run hard and don’t look back. I run until the torchlight disappears, and I am shrouded in black. Gods, I hope it’s this dark because my eyes are still adjusting. Who knows what Kasaros does with this maze?
I feel along the wall and keep going.
Don’t listen to the sounds. Don’t think about the guttural snarls and squelching thuds. Or the male grunts of pain growing smaller, softer the further I go.
He’s not Drayven. I owe him nothing.