Chapter 11 Florienne
Florienne
When the masks fall away, even Gods hold their breath.”
— WHISPERED BY PRIESTESSES ON HUNT NIGHT
The Huntsman’s body spasms against me, a motion that leaves his mask fluttering as he gasps for breath.
I still grip his cock inside his breeches, sticky and wet.
At first, I think it’s just from his release, but then more warmth floods from above.
I glance up, horrified. A sword protrudes from his leather jacket.
No. It can’t be.
He falls to his knees with a groan, collapsing on me, revealing the triumphant figure behind him. The Baron wears his dark hair slicked back. Clean armor clings to his broad shoulders. His cold eyes gleam with victory, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as he yanks his sword free.
I struggle to hold the Huntsman upright.
He’s bleeding out. Because of me. Because he tried to protect me.
I’ll be damned if I let the Baron take what’s mine without a fight.
Because deep in my heart, I know the truth has been staring at me this whole time.
The Huntsman is no stranger. I don’t care what he claims. He’s the boy who tried to save me all those years ago.
While the Baron is busy sheathing his sword, I pretend to fall under the weight of the Huntsman.
It’s not exactly a lie. He’s heavy. But it’s the perfect opportunity for me to take a page out of Demaya’s book and steal the curved weapon at his hip.
It releases easily, almost jumping into my palm as though eager for retribution.
Blue hair whips across my face as I straighten, hiding the blade behind my back to confront the Baron. Let him underestimate me like all the rest. Let him think me weak, helpless, his for the taking. He’s about to learn just how wrong he is.
“Florienne,” he croons, stalking closer. “Sweet, foolish girl. When will you learn? There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.”
Something familiar about his cruel laughter trails ice-cold fingers down my spine.
“You belong to me.”
“I belong to no one,” I counter. “Least of all you.”
“Still so defiant, even now. It’s almost admirable.” He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the twisted briars, the blood-soaked altar. “But look around you, little queen. Your protector lies broken at your feet. What hope do you have left?”
“More than you know,” I hiss through gritted teeth, circling him warily, weapon behind my back.
My gaze shifts to the crumpled figure, my chest tightening at the sight of his blood collecting on the ancient stones.
The Baron’s right. He can’t protect me anymore.
But maybe, just maybe, I can protect him.
“Why?” The question tears from my throat, raw and aching. “Why do any of this?”
“You truly are naive, aren’t you?” the Baron scoffs, prowling closer, boots crunching on scattered petals. “Power, Florienne. It’s always about power. And you, my dear, are the key to it all.”
He lunges, but I’m faster.
With a cry of fury, I swing the weapon with every ounce of strength, every shred of will. The sharp crescent blade slices his temple and hits bone. The impact shudders up my arms, knocking the weapon free from my weakened grip.
The Baron staggers, eyes wide with shock, blood trickling down his face. For a heartbeat, he sways. Then he crumples, body thudding in a graceless sprawl.
My ragged breaths and the relentless drip, drip, drip of blood are deafening in the silence.
I should feel triumphant, vindicated. But all I feel is hollow. I turn away and stumble to the second unconscious form—I know it’s him, it has to be him.
“Hold on, Dray,” I whisper.
I peel back his blood-soaked jacket, assessing the wound through his pale shirt. Dark warm liquid pulses past ragged edges. I slam my palm over it, but it’s a foolish effort when he’ll just keep bleeding from the other side. The sword cut him right through.
There’s only one way to keep him alive, but it’s going to make me weak.
The smiling mask gives me pause when I look at the Huntsman’s face. That damned wretched mask. Doubt slides into my mind. He insisted Dray is dead. What if this is all a trick and I make myself weak?
The Drayven I knew hated the Bride Hunt.
Why would he devote his life to ensuring it continued?
Why would he capture innocent women? I think of Demaya, how she told me she’d evaded capture for half a decade.
This man bleeding out seized her liberties and delivered her to the Pen.
Why, when it went against everything that made him good and kind and the Drayven I loved?
I reach up with shaking fingers and tug the mask free.
The face beneath is a stranger’s. Scarred. Hard-edged. More brutal than I ever imagined. But it’s him.
Drayven.
My Drayven.
Older. Tanned, golden skin. Two slashes for brows pulled tight in a grimace of pain. Long lashes closed. Lips, still a little swollen and rosy from when he feasted on me through the mask. He is weathered and scarred from years of war, yes, but still… him. Still breathtakingly handsome. Even more.
Somehow alive.
I suck in a sharp breath, memories flashing like lightning in my mind. The boy who once promised we’d escape together. The boy who stood outside the Labyrinth gates as a man, silent and unshakable, before walking away—leaving an apple behind.
He never left me.
“You absolute bastard,” I choke out, tears burning hot down my cheeks. “How could you let me think you were dead?”
His lips part, but no words come. Blood stains his mouth, his chin, his throat. He tries to speak, but it comes out a strangled gasp. My hands tremble as I press down on his wound.
He won’t die. He can’t die.
The Baron stirs.
“Come on,” I grunt, hooking my arms under Dray’s and heaving with all my strength. “We need to… get you… somewhere safe…”
But he’s too heavy, too big. His muscular body is a dead weight against mine. I scream my frustration, my rage at the uncaring sky. Why now? Why, after all we’ve been through, all we’ve suffered? Haven’t we paid enough? Haven’t we bled enough for this Gods-forsaken game?
The Labyrinth shifts around us as if in answer, ancient stones grinding and groaning.
The briars at the altar’s base shudder, then part.
Roses grow from nothing and bloom, unfurling like a sigh.
And there, beneath their thorny embrace…
a hidden passage, a descending stairwell yawning, dark and deep.
My heart pounds. Every instinct screams danger and warns of traps and treachery. But what choice do I have? What choice has this place ever given me, given any of us?
“Looks like you’re getting your wish,” I mutter, tightening my grip on Drayven’s limp form. “Somewhere safe… or the closest this cursed place can manage.”
With a last, desperate prayer, I haul my good-for-nothing friend into the waiting dark until shadows swallow us whole. The stone steps tremble beneath our feet.
I exhale, tears in my eyes. Of course, this is a trap. Of course, we’ve been tricked. I should have used my blood to kill the Baron instead of saving it to heal Dray. Now I’ll never—
The ground gives way, and we plummet into the earth, the wind roaring in our ears as we tumble down.
The ancient steps must have crumbled or come loose.
I can’t tell. We’re weightless. Drayven won’t survive…
whatever this is. Stone and soil rush past in a dizzying blur, the wind of our passage tearing the breath from my lungs.
I cling to him, determined not to lose him, not again, not ever again.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it’s over. We hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, rolling to a stop in a tangle of limbs and labored breaths. Dirt and debris fall on our heads. I shield him with my arms until the shower ends.
When it does, I just lie there, blinking up at the distant circle of faint red light above. Mist drizzles through but grows smaller by the second as briars grow over it.
We’re tossed into darkness again and I tense, stretching my senses for signs of danger. I hear trickling and dripping water echoing. Insects chirping. Frogs. Birds.
How would birds survive in here?
As if in answer to my question, sconces around us burst alight with holy flame and reveal our surroundings.
Lush foliage, verdant and green. It spills between ruins and shelters us with a canopy.
The walls are thick with vines and the cloying scent of roses, but I can’t see any flowers blooming.
Above us, further into the chamber, another hole in the ceiling opens to let in the drizzle and moonlight.
A beam lands on a statue of a woman with blue hair wreathed in thorny briars.
Her face wears a serene smile, directed at the swollen belly clutched in her hands.
“Amara,” I breathe, the name echoing in the stillness like a prayer. “We’re in a lost temple of Amara.”
It seems impossible, unreal, like a fever dream conjured by a dying mind.
But the pain is real enough, the ache in my bones, the burn of my muscles. And Drayven… Drayven is real, solid and warm beneath my hands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, shuddering breaths.
“Alright, you bastard,” I mutter, shifting Drayven carefully onto his back. “You don’t get to die on me now. You have some explaining to do.”
My hands shake as I peel open his jacket and push up his shirt, revealing the ruin of his torso.
The fresh sword wound is ghastly, pulsing with each labored beat of his heart, but it’s the other scars that steal my breath.
Dozens of them, hundreds, some old and silvered, others raw and red.
The way they’re made, deep at one end and shallow at another, all angled similarly… as if made by his own hand.
“Oh, Dray,” I whisper. “What did you do?”
But I know, don’t I? I know the bargains he must have made, the pieces of himself he traded away. The Huntsman is Kasaros’s servant.
I fumble for another of his weapons—a thin blade inside his jacket. Drayven stirs beneath me, lashes fluttering, lips shaping words lost to the rattle of his breath.
“Shh,” I soothe, pressing a kiss to his brow. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
The hilt is cool against my palm. Though the weapon is slight, its blade’s edge is honed to a wicked sharpness. I take a deep breath, steadying myself for what needs to be done. To heal a wound like this, I must sacrifice a wound like this. I point the tip to my stomach.
A sluggish hand knocks mine away. “No, Flori.”
“Dray, please,” I plead. “Let me help you.”
I try to aim the dagger again. His eyes flutter open, hazy with pain but determined. He latches onto my grip with more force than I thought him capable of. It gives me hope.
“No,” he pants. “You can’t… waste your power on me. Need it… for what’s coming.”
I shake my head. “There won’t be anything coming if you die, you stubborn fool!”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Always… so dramatic.”
Sweat beads on his upper lip from the effort it takes to hold my wrist at bay. His free hand reaches up, trembling, to cup my cheek. I lean into his touch, savoring the warmth of his skin against mine.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he murmurs. “But you can’t save me, Flori. Not this time.”
“Watch me,” I growl, but he tightens his grip on my wrist.
“Please. The things I’ve done… the lives I’ve ruined. Lives I’ve taken. All because I’m a selfish bastard. I’m not… worth it.”
“You’re worth everything,” I whisper. “Now, let me save you.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t. Made a vow… to a boy once. Said I’d… be your thorns. So you could bloom.” He pauses. Licks his bloodied lips. “He can’t have you. You’re made for something big. Free the brides. End the Hunt for good.”
I gasp. “How do you know about my deal with Kasaros?”
But his eyes are growing unfocused. “Let me die… you can’t… be with me. Have to get to the end… unclaimed. It’s the only way.”
“The only way for what?” I demand, frustration and fear making my voice sharp.
“For you to fulfill your destiny,” he mumbles. “To become a queen without equal.”
I try to wrestle my wrist from his grip, but it’s already weakening.
“Dray, stay with me.” Panic claws at my throat. “Fight, you bastard. Fight like hell!”
“I’m sorry… Flori …” His hand falls away, eyes sliding shut.
“No!” I howl, shaking him with my free hand. “Dray! Wake up!”
But he’s limp. Unresponsive.
I aim the blade at my stomach and push hard, piercing flesh and muscle—right through the golden base of the rosebud’s stem. Pain wrenches a cry from my lips, but I turn it into something else, something beautiful. Something he made sure I never lost. My voice.
“My destiny is with you, you idiot. It always has been.”
This is what my blood is for—giving, not taking. I lie down, face buried in the crook of Drayven’s neck, pressing my wound against his. My magic pours into him, soaking between us. As darkness crowds my vision, a smile tugs at my lips. I feel his flesh knitting beneath mine, warming.
While mine goes cold.