Chapter 7

“There’s a problem.”

Sorcha recognized the voice. Revenant, the Wolf’s second-in-command. It hadn’t taken her long to figure it out. The strange man had come and gone several times, once carrying a carefully sealed letter and another time to speak softly in a language she couldn’t understand.

Now the fire in the brazier was out, and the overcast night sky glimpsed through the opening in the tent. It was late, the noise of the camp had died down, and a strange sense of calm had overtaken the place.

The Wolf was out of the cot and following the other man in a moment.

She was alone, wrapped in the furs at the farthest point from where he’d been sleeping. Except, she didn’t think he had been. His breathing had never evened out, never relaxed. He’d been as awake as she had been.

Now or never.

Moving as quietly as possible, Sorcha stood and slipped on the boots that had arrived while she’d been eating. They were perfect, as if they’d known her size and fit. Another woman’s boots? And the fresh clothes she’d refused? Would they have fit her this well? Now, she’d never know.

One of the Wolf’s black daggers was on the desk—sheathed in red leather—holding the corner of a curling map down. Sorcha took it and wrapped one of the furs he’d tossed at her around her shoulders. The metal of the dagger was cool in her hand, warming with her touch.

The scent of smoke and blood lingered around her. She’d refused the full bath he’d offered after she ate, refused the clothes. A bath would have been a luxury beyond imagining, but she didn’t want to concede to that as well. There had been too many of concessions already.

It was almost too easy to slip through the outskirts of the encampment. She saw a few fires lit and men in the distance, but no one around or in front of her. No one kept watch at the edge when she reached the final line of tents.

The forest lay only yards away, thick and black. Mist curled along the ground, pouring between the trunks, bringing the clammy cold of a fresh fall morning. But they lived in a world of early winter—unnatural and a sign of things to come. Only yesterday, it had snowed. But strange warmth filled the air here.

In a few breathless moments, Sorcha was across the open space and into the trees. She stumbled through underbrush—cursing silently—terrified someone would hear her clumsy passage through the trees. But she didn’t stop. Putting as much distance between herself and the Wolf was the most important thing. Maybe with enough of a head start, she would find a place to hide and wait until it was safe to move again. Then she would figure out in which direction the closest unconquered temple lay.

A sound or movement tugged at her senses, and she paused, heart racing.

Nothing. Not another sound.

A figment. Stress. But there was someone there.

She pulled the dagger free of the sheath, gripping it tightly and moving slowly. The sense that someone followed intensified, not in the things she heard but in the things she couldn’t. The trees around her were dark, holding tight to the night, refusing to let it go and become day. She squinted into each shadow, searching for a familiar shape, a sign.

A soft rustle behind her froze her blood. She turned, and he was coming toward her out of the night—birthed and made of shadows.

She stood her ground, breathing hard, and lifted the blade up.

He didn’t stop, didn’t pause; his power and anger rushing toward her. She took one step forward, just one, ready to meet him with her own frustration and hurt and fear.

With a ring of metal, he drew his sword, bringing it up and down, striking the dagger. The hard contact vibrated up to her shoulder, the clash of metal filling the woods.

But she held on to the blade, bringing it up again as he circled her.

“Do you know how to fight?” His voice was calm, as if he weren’t wielding a sword, attacking a woman in the early morning hours. “Did they teach you in that temple?”

They hadn’t. Not really. A few basic techniques, enough to defend herself from an over-amorous visitor, but nothing that would keep her alive under a blade like his.

He brought the sword up again before coming down. The dagger faltered, her hand falling, and he pressed his advantage, shoving her with the flat of his blade. Spinning, Sorcha hit a tree, scrambling to keep her feet. As he went by, she reached out with the blade and caught his arm. Fabric ripped, revealing a shallow slash, blood welling up. Shock skittered across his face when he realized she’d wounded him.

The Wolf grabbed her arm as he turned. Tugging her sleeve, he twisted his fingers into the fabric. Sorcha kicked out with a foot, wincing as she connected with his knee. Grim satisfaction filled her as he swore, but it vanished the next instant as he fell backward, still gripping her sleeve.

Sorcha followed him down, landing awkwardly across his body with a grunt. He swore again—taking her weight—as she pushed herself up and raised the dagger above her head. The Wolf held her other hand against his chest, each breath fogging the air between them. Rage filled her, overflowing and blurring the edges of her vision. Fighting to catch her breath, to quiet the racing thoughts, she stared at the Wolf.

He lay on his back beneath her, dark eyes locked on her, mouth set in a firm line, body hard and unmoving. Everywhere their bodies touched burned—legs tangled, his hand encircling her wrist, her palm against his chest, with thighs and hips pressed close.

She opened her mouth to scream or cry, to tell him what would happen when the Saint came for him. Anything. Something. But she remained frozen.

“Do it,” the Wolf said, voice low and emotionless as he watched her and waited.

Her arms shook. The rage began to recede, leaving space for the chill to creep in. The dagger dropped a fraction, her desire to plunge it into his chest drawing back.

In a rush, he rolled her over, pinning her beneath him and pressing her into the dirt with his full weight. The dagger slipped from her grip, her hand empty and grasping. Twigs and small stones bit into her back as she struggled, leaves rustling, the scents of damp earth and snow filling her senses.

The Wolf moved his hands to her neck, digging his fingers into soft flesh. Sorcha clutched at his forearms, pulling at his wrists in an effort to dislodge him, but his grip tightened. Black hair fell around her as he leaned down, their faces so close she could smell the soap he’d used to shave earlier. His eyes glittered with some suppressed emotion.

Sorcha twisted, seeing the dagger was only inches away. If she could loosen his grip, she might be able to reach it.

“Don’t,” he warned.

The single word was hard and final. If she went for it, she might not survive. He needed her, she knew that, but his stony expression promised nothing. The prince might be angry his monster had killed the woman he needed, but by then, it would be too late.

“Get it over with if you’re going to kill me,” Sorcha challenged, lifting her chin slightly.

He leaned into her, coming so close she could smell apples and a trace of mint beneath that spiced armor polish and sharp copper. In a sudden, graceful move, he rolled away from her and stood, gaze averted. Sorcha lay there panting, hand easing toward the blade. But he picked it up and tucked it into his belt without a word.

Sorcha began to stand, but he scooped her up before she could. He threw her over his shoulder, and her breath pushed from her lungs with a grunt.

“Do that again, and I’ll kill you,” he said, adjusting his hold on the backs of her thighs. “Do anything but follow my commands, and you die. Understand?”

Sorcha braced herself against his muscled back, cheeks hot and mind whirling. His large hand was warm, his hard shoulder digging into her abdomen. The contact was too much. She wriggled, wanting him to release her, to not feel how small she was in his arms—how breakable.

They reached the tree line before she spoke, pushing hair out of her face with one hand, too aware of where her other hand was.

“Put me down,” she said. “I can walk.”

“I don’t trust you.” His voice was flat, giving nothing away.

“I won’t run,” she promised.

The Wolf snorted, continuing without pause as they crossed the meadow and entered camp. Revenant stood at the entrance to the Wolf’s tent, yellow eyes piercing in the gloom. As they neared, he opened the flap, letting it fall behind them once they were inside.

Without ceremony, the Wolf dumped her on the pile of furs that had been her bed before.

“In the morning, you’ll bathe,” he said, returning to his cot. “You stink. I’m not taking you into the Traveling City smelling like Nox’s ass.”