Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Marian’s hands roam the stretch of his ribs, the solid rise of his chest, the thin trail of hair that disappears below his waistband.
She brushes across his stomach, feeling it flex under her touch, and her breath stutters when his hips roll forward.
The swell of him strains visibly against the fabric.
She tugs at the top of his trousers playfully with one hand, while the other palms the length of him.
‘Marian.’ His voice fractures on her name. ‘If you keep touching me like that, I’m going to forget every good intention I’ve ever had.’ He clamps a hand over hers, halting the motion. His eyes squeeze shut for the space of a heartbeat before he forces them open, gold flaring bright and pained.
‘You were kind enough to help me forget about my pain.’ She arches a brow, lips curving in a sly smile as her fingernail skims the rigid shape of him. ‘I want to return the favour.’
His answering groan is a mix of hunger and grief.
‘If I had a choice, I would lay with you until the forest itself forgot the hour. But as Sherwood’s Verdant Guardian .
. .’ His thumb strokes the inside of her wrist, coaxing her hand away from its prize.
‘I have duties. And one of them is to open tonight’s rite. They cannot begin without me.’
Marian lets out a long, theatrical sigh, flopping back in her chair as if he’s wounded her. ‘And here I thought I was the one with a reputation for obedience.’
That wins her a crooked, fleeting grin. He steals another kiss before she can prolong her protest. It’s full of promise and apology all at once. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers, their breath mingling.
‘Tonight,’ he murmurs, voice roughened by want.
She hums longingly and lets him rise. His tunic shifts back into place, hiding the still-fading sheen of his burns, though the sight of him standing tall, whole, and already sliding back into command makes her chest tighten.
She notes how quickly he can armour himself, how easily he can tuck away hunger for duty.
He offers her his hand. ‘Coming?’
‘That was the plan,’ Marian sighs, arching her brow at the innuendo before snatching her shirt off the ground.
She drags it over her head, tugging the laces together with more force than necessary.
‘You know, for a man who claims he can have no hearth and no vows of love, you certainly sound married to your work.’
Lox’s mouth quirks, though his eyes betray the same want still knotting his frame. ‘Regrettably, the forest doesn’t grant annulments.’
She threads her fingers through his, the warmth of his palm grounding her as they step out into the forest. The evening hum is already alive with the stirrings of celebration – drums thrum through the boughs, voices lifting in laughter and song.
Lanterns strung between branches sway in the breeze, their glass catching glints of amber fire.
Smoke curls upward from roasting pits where herbs crackle, scenting the air with rosemary.
Children dart past with ivy crowns, ribbons trailing from their hands like streamers.
The path opens wider as they descend into the heart of Elswyth, and Marian is struck by the sheer transformation.
The village is unrecognizable from the quiet refuge it had been that morning.
Now it’s luminous, dizzy with colour and sound.
Fae voices weave through the clearing in laughter, song, and conversation, while the low, steady hum of drums anchors it all.
Elswyth’s heart tree is draped in swaths of cloth dyed deep emerald, bright marigold, and the burnt orange of autumn leaves.
Tables are laid end-to-end beneath its roots, with every type of food imaginable gracing their surfaces.
Glazed tubers and wild greens glisten; bread rounds spill steam as they’re torn; and bowls of fruit drip with honey so thick that Marian swears her stomach rumbles even harder.
Spits of venison turn slowly over coals, their fat crackling and spitting into the fire, sending up bursts of smoke sharp with thyme.
Lox leads her straight through the tide of revellers.
Hands clap his shoulder, and heads bow toward him as he passes.
He acknowledges them with nods, a quiet word here, a touch of palm there.
Marian feels the brush of curious gazes as they part around him, her senses prickling with every stare that falls to her.
Some eyes catch hers with open admiration.
Others are sharper, narrowed, their smiles thin with brittle resentment hovering beneath the veneer of festivity.
One woman’s stare lingers too long on where her vine tattoo peeks above her neckline, the corners of her mouth downturned with disapproval.
She leans over to the thick-shouldered man beside her and whispers something.
Marian tugs at her hem and turns back to the mountains of food, nibbling at her bottom lip.
Lox’s hand presses slightly more firmly against her back. ‘None of it is magicked, in case you were concerned.’
Marian startles slightly, caught by how effortlessly he’s read her hesitation. His eyes soften as though he understands the exact weight of her mistrust.
She exhales, fingers sliding across the smooth wood of the table. ‘Am I really that obvious?’
‘It’s not a weakness to be cautious,’ he says simply, piling her plate with thick cuts of bread, vegetables roasted to softness, and a sliver of venison still steaming. His hand hovers over the pitcher of cider before he pulls his hand back. ‘Though best to avoid our wine.’
They move toward a table on the far side of the revelry, where Will, Little John, and Allen have already made themselves comfortable. Lox pulls a chair out for her with a courtliness that makes her flush. Before she can reach for anything, he leans close, his teeth brushing her ear.
‘Eat up,’ he sighs, breath grazing the shell of her ear. ‘You’re going to need your strength for what I have planned.’ Heat flares up Marian’s neck, spilling into her cheeks.
She swallows hard, fingers tightening on the edge of her plate. The air between them crackles. For a moment, she forgets the press of eyes on her, forgets the music and the laughter spilling across the clearing.
When she dares glance at him, his gaze burns bright gold in the lantern light. He picks up the bread off her plate and pulls a chunk out of its doughy centre, holding it up to her slightly parted mouth.
‘Trust me.’ He smirks at the way she flusters.
Marian parts her lips further, letting him press the soft bread against her tongue. The crust gives beneath her bite, warm and airy, steam curling against her palate. His fingers brush the corner of her mouth as he pulls back.
‘Good girl,’ Lox murmurs, satisfied, before tearing a piece for himself. He chews slowly, eyes never leaving hers.
She forces her gaze away first. Down the table, a pair of fae women are watching them openly, their expressions sharp as thorns. One mutters behind her hand, and the other tips her head back with a brittle laugh. Marian stiffens.
Lox’s hand finds her thigh under the table. His thumb traces a lazy line higher up her leg, too casual to be anything but deliberate. Heat surges in her belly.
The drums shift, their steady heartbeat climbing, quickening.
Voices hush in a ripple that spreads across the clearing.
Marian lifts her head just as the Elders rise from each of their respective tables, cloaks glinting in the lantern light.
Lox stands as well, his hand brushing the small of her back as he straightens.
The crowd follows suit, murmurs dimming as they all stand.
Marian stumbles to her feet, catching herself on the table’s edge, and feels the weight of eyes again – hundreds of them, sharpened by firelight.
She looks around and notices how there are far more fae present than in previous nights; several of them look similar to the Elder nearest to them.
Rían of Willowbend clears his throat, his tumble of copper curls bouncing as he lifts his chin.
‘Tonight, we begin the third Greenwake rite.’ Rían’s voice carries without effort.
‘With the Severing, we cut loose what no longer serves us. We bleed out the rot, the silence, the fear, in order to free ourselves, and vow anew that Sherwood will grow stronger for every casting off.’ He gestures for everyone to sit, before he raises a carved goblet, its surface etched with ivy and thorns.
‘I sever my envy,’ he declares. ‘Of what others have and of what I have lost. I will look forward, not back.’ He drinks, and when he lowers the cup the faint shimmer of the wine has stained his lips.
The goblet passes from hand to hand down the long tables. With each turn, someone rises, declares what they’ll sever, drinks, and sits again.
Marian listens as vows unfurl around her.
One fae severs an old betrayal. Another, his cowardice.
A woman with hair of spun silver severs silence, swearing her voice will no longer be stifled.
Some words are bitter, spat like curses.
Others tremble, fragile as new leaves. The wine glows faintly with every cleaving, as though with every invisible thread cut, it steeps stronger.
But with every declaration, Marian feels the prickling at her back. Whispers swirl. She hears her own name more than once, hissed in tones sharp enough to pierce.
The goblet has nearly circled the clearing when it reaches their table. Marian is already braced, but the strike comes swift regardless.
A woman with hair like ink drums her long nails against the table, her green eyes sharp. Her voice rises above the throng. ‘Our rites are meant to be private,’ she sneers. ‘Not for humans to spy on, let alone participate in.’
Marian’s cheeks flame and her breath seizes in her chest. The table hums with murmurs, some agreeing, others unsure.