Chapter Five

Wilder’s sour mood lingered, shadowing even the momentous arrival of the cows. He’d completely forgotten about the livestock in the aftermath of Harald and the other men, their intrusion leaving a bitter taste in his mouth that refused to fade. For the remainder of the day, Anders had kept his distance, though Wilder was acutely aware of his presence. Anders didn’t loom or approach directly, yet Wilder could feel his gaze—a heavy, persistent thing, impossible to ignore. He busied himself with chores, pretending not to notice, but Anders’s eyes followed him as if ensuring he stayed in sight.

The way Anders watched him was different, though, from the way Harald and his companions had leered. Their looks had filled Wilder with a cold dread, their casual glances and smirks weighing on him like a threat. Anders’s watchful eye, on the other hand, felt... steadying. Grounding. As though—

As though he were being guarded. Protected.

The realization unsettled him. He had no doubt that if any of those men returned, Anders would defend him. The memory of the blue-eyed Harald crumpled on the floor, Anders standing over him radiating fury, was fresh in his mind. Wilder thought of Anders’s strength, his towering form, and his sheer presence. A shepherd would defend his flock because they were his livelihood. A lord, Wilder reasoned, must see his servants the same way. And Wilder was Anders’s only servant. If something happened to him—if he were injured, taken, or killed—Anders would have no one to help tend the ever-growing responsibilities of the household.

The chickens needed feeding and their coop cleaning. The goats and sheep required constant care. The garden had expanded so much that Wilder already found himself overwhelmed by the weeding, planting, and harvesting. Surely even Anders would struggle to manage it all alone. Wilder was indispensable, truly.

But that realization came with a shadow of fear. If he were so necessary, what would Anders do if Wilder tried to escape? If he gathered his courage and fled into the forest, seeking refuge in the dense trees, would Anders hunt him down like a wolf after a stray lamb? And if he managed to find his way to the nearest town, would Anders follow him there too, dragging him back to this isolated longhouse?

The thought left a bitter pit in his stomach. Was this to be his life? A captive bound not by chains but by the unrelenting practicality of his role? Relying on the goodwill of his captor and hemmed in by the dangers of the outside world? The days here stretched before him like an endless path of repetition: the same tasks, the same routines, the same companion. Each day so much like the last that it was easy to lose track of time.

The longhouse felt larger than the monastery yet no less confining. Perhaps, he thought with a twinge of despair, this place wasn’t so different after all.

The following morning, the silence of an uneventful breakfast hung in the air as Wilder cleared the table. Anders had barely spoken, and Wilder had been too distracted by his brooding thoughts to fill the quiet with idle chatter. He carried the bowls and cups to a small washbasin near the hearth, methodically scrubbing away the remnants of their meal. His hands moved automatically, the motions requiring little thought. The sound of clinking dishes was the only noise until it was broken by the creak of the longhouse door.

Wilder glanced up, startled, and blinked in confusion at what he saw. A reddish-brown cow stood in the doorway, her fuzzy ears twitching and her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. Her small horns gave her an almost dainty appearance despite her size. Wilder froze, unsure if he was hallucinating.

The cow stepped over the threshold with slow, deliberate movements, her hooves tapping softly against the wooden floor. She sniffed the air, her large head swiveling as she surveyed her surroundings. Wilder’s eyes widened as she ambled further inside, her attention drawn toward the hearth’s ashes as though she meant to walk straight through them.

“No, no, no—wait!” Wilder set down the bowls with a clatter and rushed to intercept her before she could make a mess. He raised his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “Hello,” he said, voice uncertain as he approached the unexpected visitor.

The cow’s ears flicked in his direction. She paused her exploration and turned her head toward him. With a quiet huff, she allowed him to pet her broad forehead, her fur warm and surprisingly soft under his hand. Wilder smiled despite himself, but his expression shifted to one of mild disgust when her long, wet tongue flicked out and licked his palm.

“Ugh—well, that’s certainly one way to say hello,” he muttered, wiping his hand on his tunic. “Where did you come from?”

The cow offered no answer, her attention wandering as quickly as it had settled on him. She gazed at him with what could only be described as disappointment, realizing he had no treats to offer. Then, without hesitation, she turned and ambled back toward the door.

“Wait—hey!” Wilder followed her out, curiosity now outweighing his confusion. Had she wandered here from a neighboring farm? But from what he’d seen, Anders had no nearby neighbors. The land surrounding the longhouse was vast and untamed, with no other houses or farms visible for miles.

The cow seemed far too clean to have spent much time in the wild, her coat sleek and free of mud or debris. Her well-fed frame and groomed appearance suggested she’d been cared for—recently, at that. Wilder frowned, wiping his still-damp hand against his tunic again as he watched her lumber toward the small fenced area near the chickens and goats.

At the edge of the forest, a woman stood speaking to Anders, her laughter light and musical as she gestured toward the cow beside her. The animal, a placid, reddish-brown creature with gentle eyes, seemed content to nibble at the grass as the woman patted its flank. Nearby, Anders was locked in a half-hearted battle with one of the goats, fending off its attempts to headbutt him in the stomach. He nodded occasionally at the woman’s words, his expression a mix of focus and faint amusement.

Wilder trailed behind the other cow, shyly watching the scene unfold. The second cow had wandered ahead of him, as if accustomed to leading rather than following, and he found himself reluctantly in her wake. As he drew closer, Anders noticed him first, his stern features softening immediately. With a beckoning gesture, he called Wilder over, placing a heavy, reassuring hand on his shoulder as he turned to introduce him.

The woman’s face lit up as she noticed Wilder, her smile broad and inviting. Wilder hesitated under her expectant gaze and Anders’s steady, encouraging touch. Clearing his throat, he bowed politely and murmured, “Hello. My name is Wilder. Are these your cows?”

Her grin widened further, and she delivered a playful punch to Anders’s shoulder, prompting a faint smirk from the man. “Your cows now,” she declared, her voice cheerful and animated. “Anders bought them from me yesterday! I said I’d bring them along today. I wanted to meet you.”

Wilder blinked, caught off guard. “You wanted to meet me?” he repeated, his tone uncertain. Though her sentences were simple and her words carefully chosen, he still second-guessed his understanding.

“Yes!” she replied brightly. “Everyone is curious about you. Do you know that word? Everyone?” She paused, her brow furrowing slightly in thought. “The people. The town. This house is too big for just one person.”

Ah. So that was it. She had come to gawk at Anders’s peculiar new servant, just like the others who had visited under the guise of curiosity. Wilder’s initial discomfort turned quickly to sullen irritation. Bowing his head stiffly, he mumbled, “Yes. There is much work to do. Pardon, but I must return to it.” Shrugging off Anders’s hand, he turned and walked briskly toward the garden, ignoring the woman’s surprise and Anders’s faint frown.

As he reached the vegetable patch, Wilder knelt and attacked the weeds with more vigor than necessary, his hands yanking at the stubborn roots with growing frustration. Was he so strange to these people that his mere presence was a topic of discussion? Perhaps Anders’s servants were typically sourced from the surrounding area. Wilder’s unfamiliar language and customs might be just different enough to warrant their curiosity. Or, worse, perhaps Anders’s solitary reputation made his decision to acquire a servant at all—let alone one like Wilder—into a spectacle worth observing.

He tossed the uprooted weeds into the chicken pen with a forceful flick of his wrist, watching as the hens descended upon them with mild interest. That interest, however, turned to outrage as the goats soon joined the fray, abandoning their harassment of Anders in favor of investigating the chickens’ spoils. Wilder paused, sitting back on his heels as the small chaos unfolded around him.

The goats nudged the chickens aside with their noses, their mischievous enthusiasm only riling the hens further. The chickens puffed up their feathers and let out a symphony of indignant squawks, as though they might intimidate the goats into retreating. Avery, the boldest of the flock, strutted with dramatic flair, feathers flared and wings fluttering as if to say, This is my territory, and you are unwelcome.

It might have worked on any other creature, but the goats were unshaken. If anything, they seemed to delight in the chickens’ fury, treating their antics as a game.

Wilder found himself smiling despite his foul mood. He was so absorbed in the squabbling animals that he didn’t notice Anders’s shadow until it fell over him. With a soft sigh, he spoke without turning. “Forgive me for my rudeness to your guest, my lord.”

Anders made a low, questioning sound—a quiet hmm? —as though he hadn’t fully understood.

“It was kind of her to bring the cows here,” Wilder continued, trying to sound more polite. “They are very fine cows.”

Anders said nothing. His silence stretched on, and Wilder finally turned to face him, brushing dirt from his knees as he stood. “My lord?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. Anders was staring at him with an unreadable expression, his gaze flicking away as though avoiding eye contact.

The moment hung awkwardly in the air, and Wilder was about to repeat himself when one of the goats, emboldened by Anders’s presence, lowered its head and prepared to charge.

“Careful, Anders—the goat—” Wilder started, but it was too late.

The goat barreled forward, ramming Anders square in the side and sending him sprawling into the mud with an audible splat . The impact seemed to shake the very ground, and for a moment, all Wilder could do was stare in stunned silence.

Then the laughter bubbled up, uncontrollable and bright. “Are you all right, my lord?” he managed between fits of giggles. The sight of Anders—this towering, powerful warrior—laid low by a mischievous goat was simply too much. Anders’s wide-eyed, puzzled expression only made it funnier, as if he were still processing how he had ended up in such a state.

Anders raised his arms and inspected himself, his tunic now streaked with damp earth. He looked utterly baffled, and that only made Wilder laugh harder.

“You’re a mess, my lord!” Wilder said, grinning as he extended a hand to help him up. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Anders blinked, and then, to Wilder’s surprise, a small, bashful chuckle escaped him. He accepted the offered hand, his fingers warm and solid as they gripped Wilder’s. For a moment, they stood there, mud-streaked and smiling, the earlier tension melting away like morning mist.

◆◆◆

They needed to get that tunic off before Anders caught a chill. Wilder glanced toward the hearth, where the flames now danced steadily, casting a warm light over the longhouse. He turned to Anders, who was still sitting stiffly, his mud-streaked tunic clinging damply to his broad frame.

"My lord," Wilder said, more firmly this time, "I'll take your tunic." He gestured toward the soiled garment with a slight frown.

Anders stiffened, his brows drawing together in hesitation. He crossed his arms over his chest like a child refusing to part with a favorite toy, his head shaking in silent refusal.

"It needs to be clean," Wilder insisted, trying to temper his growing impatience. Still, Anders made no move, though his second headshake was less resolute. This was absurd—they were wasting time! Wilder’s tone sharpened. "My lord !"

Anders let out a defeated sigh, one that seemed to echo with resignation, before finally peeling off the tunic. The wet fabric clung to his skin, making the process slow and awkward. Wilder reached out to take it, but his hands faltered as his gaze landed on the expanse of Anders’s bare torso.

Ah. He felt his cheeks burn as a sudden blush overtook him. That’s right—Anders’s chest was hairy. Wilder had seen glimpses of him without a tunic before, when Anders worked in the fields or chopped wood in the distance. But those moments had been fleeting, impersonal. This was different. Now, standing mere steps away, he could see the individual dark hairs curling across Anders’s chest, the way they tapered toward his abdomen.

It fit him, somehow—this ruggedness. Anders’s chest, like the rest of him, was a perfect balance of strength and resilience. Thick, muscled, and scarred, it bore the marks of a life hard-lived. Wilder found it unexpectedly fascinating. He wasn’t sure why, but the sight stirred something within him—admiration, perhaps, or awe. His pulse quickened, a sudden, rabbit-like rhythm that made him feel strangely breathless.

Anders, meanwhile, was decidedly not meeting Wilder’s gaze. He hunched over slightly, his shoulders curling inward as though to hide himself, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. The firelight flickered in his eyes, reflecting the unease there. Wilder hesitated. Why was Anders embarrassed?

Was it the goat incident? But no, they’d both laughed at that—it was the sort of mischief goats were known for. Was it being bare-chested? That seemed unlikely. Anders had been flustered when he’d stumbled upon Wilder bathing, but this was different. Shirtlessness wasn’t taboo here, not like at the monastery. On the ship, the sailors often worked with their chests exposed to the sun, and Anders himself had done the same on occasion. Wilder frowned slightly, puzzling over it.

He retrieved a warm, damp cloth and approached carefully, as if not to startle him. “Let me help, my lord,” Wilder murmured, his voice softer now. Anders gave no reply, but neither did he object when Wilder began wiping the dirt from his neck and shoulders.

The cloth moved over Anders’s scarred skin, catching on the raised edges of old wounds. Wilder couldn’t help but wonder about the stories behind them. One scar in particular drew his attention—a diagonal line that ran from Anders’s shoulder to his opposite hip, the skin there tough and uneven. He traced its path absently with his fingers, marveling at how deep it must have been. What kind of weapon had caused such damage? A blade, perhaps? It must have been a wicked thing to bite so deeply into flesh.

“Does it hurt?” Wilder asked quietly, his fingers lingering near the scar.

Anders shook his head, though he still didn’t look up. Wilder glanced at him, noting the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed to tense under the cloth. Did he see these marks as shameful? Evidence of moments when an enemy had bested him, even if only briefly? Wilder didn’t think so. Scars, to him, were simply proof of survival. They told a story—a life written in flesh. There was no shame in that.

Without thinking, Wilder placed his palm against Anders’s lower back, pressing gently against the solid warmth of him. He meant it as a comfort, a quiet acknowledgment of all Anders had endured.

Anders shivered.

Wilder pulled his hand away as though burned. “I’m sorry!” he gasped, his face flushing with heat. Why had he done that? What had possessed him to— touch him like that? He took a step back, his hands twisting nervously in the damp cloth.

He braced himself for a reprimand, for a sharp word or a glare, but none came. Anders shook his head, still avoiding Wilder’s gaze. Instead, he stood abruptly, letting out a strange, choked laugh as he grabbed a clean tunic from a nearby stool. He pulled it over his head in a rush, the movement awkward and almost frantic, before turning toward the door.

“Anders—” Wilder started, but the man was already gone, stepping into the cool evening air with his face burning red.

Wilder stared after him, his heart thudding unsteadily in his chest. What was this feeling? It left him breathless, confused, and yearning for something he couldn’t quite name.

◆◆◆

Four days later, the sky opened up.

The rain came hard and fast, driven by a wind that lashed against Wilder's face and stung his cheeks with its icy bite. It turned the world into a blur of gray and green, the forest fading into indistinct shadows behind the downpour. Wilder trudged back toward the longhouse, leading the animals who had scattered earlier at the first crack of thunder. Now, instinct guided them, the goats and cows hurrying ahead while the chickens scurried close to Wilder’s heels.

By the time he reached the shelter of the longhouse, his curls were soaked and water dripped from the hem of his tunic. He paused at the doorway, counting the animals as they filed inside. Avery, the rooster, squawked indignantly as a goat jostled him. The hens fluttered in behind him, their feathers sodden. The sheep bleated their complaints, huddling close to the two cows for warmth. Everyone was accounted for—except for Anders.

Wilder frowned, glancing back toward the river where Anders had been earlier. The man would come soon enough, surely, but the thought of him out in this weather stirred an uneasy feeling in Wilder's chest.

He busied himself by tending to the hearth. The fire had burned low, the embers barely clinging to life. Wilder piled on fresh wood, coaxing the flames back to strength. Heat blossomed in the room, chasing away the damp chill that clung to the air. With the animals settling into a pile—a truce formed out of shared discomfort—Wilder peeled off his soaked clothes and hung them by the fire to dry.

The warmth rubbed against his skin, rough and relentless compared to the gentle caress of sunlight. Wilder sighed as he dried himself, feeling the sting of heat in his muscles. Once he was dry and his skin was pink with the effort, he pulled on a clean woad-blue tunic and laid out fresh clothes for Anders.

The furs near the hearth called to him. Wilder stretched out on his stomach, pulling them closer as the fire crackled softly. The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof was hypnotic, lulling him into a haze of comfort and drowsiness. His eyelids grew heavy as he watched the flames dance, their flickering movements growing slower, lazier in his half-dreaming state.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but a sudden clatter of dishes startled him awake.

Wilder sat up quickly, the furs sliding from his shoulders. He blinked at the room, disoriented, before noticing the addition of a dry tunic draped over him. Anders must have covered him while he slept. His cheeks warmed at the thought, but his gaze darted around the longhouse. Where was Anders?

He found him at the table, his damp hair curling at the edges as he busied himself arranging bowls and jars. The tunic and breeches Wilder had left for him fit snugly, their clean lines a stark contrast to the muddy state he’d been in earlier.

"My lord?" Wilder called, his voice rough with sleep.

Anders turned, his smile faint but warm, and gestured for Wilder to join him with a slow curl of his fingers. Wilder shook himself more awake, curiosity stirring as he approached. Over the past few weeks, Anders had taught him to prepare many dishes. Wilder enjoyed the lessons, finding them far more satisfying than the bland, repetitive meals of the monastery.

Today’s spread was promising: the butter Wilder had churned yesterday, fresh milk from the morning’s work, a small pile of brown eggs, and a generous bowl of flour. But what caught Wilder’s attention was the heavy jar Anders held out to him with an unusual flourish.

The jar was filled with a rich, amber-colored substance. A sweet, floral scent wafted from it, warm and heady even in the rain-cooled air.

"Honey?" Wilder asked tentatively. He paused, realizing he didn’t know the word in Anders’s language. Blushing, he mimicked the buzzing of a bee, hoping Anders would understand.

The sound startled a bark of laughter from Anders, wild and unrestrained. His mirth was so infectious that Wilder found himself laughing too, the embarrassment melting away.

Anders thrust the jar toward him again, more insistent this time. Did he want him to taste it?

"May I?" Wilder asked. At Anders's nod, he dipped a finger into the jar.

The honey was darker and thinner than he expected, running smoothly as he lifted his hand. He watched it drip back into the jar before popping his finger into his mouth.

A soft moan escaped him. Wilder’s eyes fluttered shut as the honey melted on his tongue. It was unlike anything he’d ever tasted. The monastery’s honey had been reserved for medicine or the wealthy, far beyond his reach. But this—this was sweet, almost impossibly so, with a floral richness that lingered long after he swallowed. It was warm and smooth, coating his throat in a way that felt both indulgent and comforting.

Wilder licked his lips, savoring the last traces. "Thank you, my lord," he murmured, his voice filled with genuine gratitude.

Anders made a strangled noise in response. Wilder looked up to find him busying himself with the ingredients, his movements quick and almost frantic. His ears, Wilder noticed, were redder than the firelight alone could account for.

Wilder smiled to himself, a strange warmth blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the honey or the hearth.

After washing his hands, Wilder joined Anders at the table. The inviting spread of ingredients gleamed in the flickering firelight, and he couldn’t help his curiosity. “What are we making?” he asked, though the answer seemed obvious. Something sweet, something decadent—surely something with honey at its heart. A bread, perhaps? Or a pie? Whatever it was, the promise of it stirred more eagerness in Wilder than anything else Anders had taught him to prepare.

Anders gestured to the butter and flour first, and they set to work on a dough. Under Anders’s guidance, Wilder learned to cut the butter into the flour using his fingers, squeezing the cold, firm lumps until the mixture resembled coarse breadcrumbs. Each motion felt oddly meditative, the rhythm of it grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. When the texture was right, Anders measured out a trickle of cold water, just enough to bring the dough together into a pliable ball.

“Like this?” Wilder asked, holding up his misshapen tart shell, its edges uneven.

Anders chuckled softly, taking it from him. With deft hands, he smoothed the dough into something neater, pressing it into a shallow pan. They didn’t have a proper oven, but Anders showed Wilder how to bake the tart shell using the hearth. The pan went onto the fire, covered with an overturned bowl to trap the heat.

While the fire worked its magic on the crust, they began the filling. Anders cracked the eggs into a bowl, his movements precise and practiced. Wilder whisked them together, adding the milk as Anders poured it in a steady stream. Then came the honey.

Wilder’s eyes widened as Anders ladled in what felt like an impossible amount. “That much?” he exclaimed, watching the golden liquid swirl into the mixture.

Anders only nodded, a small smile playing at his lips.

Once the filling was ready, Wilder leaned over the tart shell, carefully lifting the bowl to peek. It had started to brown, the edges crisp and golden. With Anders’s nod of approval, Wilder poured the filling into the shell. He moved slowly, watching the mixture settle like liquid sunlight before covering the pan again.

“How long will it take?” Wilder asked, brushing flour from his hands.

Anders crouched by the hearth and nudged an ember with his boot. It glowed faintly before dying out. Wilder frowned at the cryptic gesture, then realized Anders meant the tart would be done when the hearth cooled.

“That long?” Wilder groaned, glancing at the fire as if willing it to speed up. The sheer extravagance of the recipe—the ingredients, the effort, the waiting—left him restless. He poked at the flames with a stick, the sweet, warming aroma teasing him as it thickened in the air.

He stole glances at Anders, who was seated at the table, sharpening a small knife. Wilder’s thoughts wandered as they often did when there was quiet. How did Anders know this recipe? Who had taught it to him? And with whom had he shared such a dish? The longhouse, with its ample space, suggested it had once been full of people. Family, perhaps? A wife? Children? Anders had not spoken of them, nor had anyone come to visit since Wilder’s arrival.

Why had Anders chosen to share something so rich and indulgent with him , of all people?

At last, Anders uncovered the tart and brought it to the table. Wilder gasped. It was beautiful, its crust golden brown and its filling smooth, firm, and glossy—the vibrant yellow-orange of sunrise. He reached out tentatively to touch it, marveling at how it held its shape.

Anders huffed a laugh, retrieving a knife. He cut two wedges, placing the larger portion in front of Wilder.

“Thank you, my lord!” Wilder cried. If Anders hadn’t handed him a spoon, he might have eaten it with his fingers.

The first bite was heaven. The crust was flaky and buttery, the custard luxuriously thick and sweet with honey. It was unlike anything Wilder had ever tasted. He couldn’t suppress a laugh as he licked his lips. “It’s delicious,” he said. “It’s very good, Anders.”

Anders’s smile widened, his delight evident. They ate in companionable silence, exchanging glances and soft smiles. Wilder felt a rare warmth in his chest—a sense of shared accomplishment and simple joy.

He had been so engrossed in the moment that he didn’t notice Anders leaning closer until their lips met.

The kiss was sudden, soft at first but deepening quickly. Wilder froze, his mind blanking at the shock of it. Anders’s lips were warm, and his tongue brushed against Wilder’s, lingering where crumbs of tart had been moments before. The sound Anders made—a low, desperate moan—sent a jolt through Wilder’s body. It was a sound Wilder had heard before, muffled through walls, but now it was here, raw and unmistakable.

Anders’s hand gripped Wilder’s side, sliding to his ribs, his fingers pressing firmly. The scent of sweat and smoke mingled with the honey on Anders’s breath, overwhelming Wilder’s senses.

He trembled, his breath hitching as he made a soft, pleading noise against Anders’s mouth. His pulse raced, panic and confusion rising in equal measure.

Anders tightened his hold, his mouth more insistent.

The realization hit Wilder like a thunderclap. This wasn’t just a kiss. This wasn’t something shared between equals. This was something he hadn’t consented to. The memory of those mocking voices came back to him, the men who had jeered at Anders in town, asking if he was a good man, a good lord.

Perhaps he wasn’t.

Wilder’s hand flew up before he could think, striking Anders’s bearded cheek with a sharp slap.

The sound echoed in the longhouse. Anders stumbled back, his eyes wide, his expression a mix of shock and something that Wilder couldn’t decipher.

The spoon clattered to the floor as Wilder scrambled backward, his chest heaving. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice trembling with anger and disbelief.

Anders stood frozen, his hand pressed to his cheek, his mouth slightly open as if searching for words that wouldn’t come. The shock on his face mirrored Wilder’s own disbelief. Just as Wilder hadn’t anticipated the kiss, Anders hadn’t expected the slap.

I hit him.

The thought churned in Wilder’s mind, leaving a sick feeling in its wake. He had raised his hand against his lord—a man who had sheltered him, fed him, and taught him how to live in this strange new place. What punishment awaited him for such insolence? Back at the monastery, the monks had spoken of severe consequences for servants who dared to defy their masters. A beating at best, a public shaming—or worse.

Would Anders have him flogged? Would they take his hand? Would his life be forfeit? Wilder imagined the townsfolk gathering to witness his disgrace, jeering as Anders’s judgment was carried out. The image made his stomach turn.

He couldn’t stay to find out.

Panic seized him, raw and overwhelming. Wilder leapt to his feet, his movements jerky and desperate, and bolted for the door. His legs carried him outside before he could register the rain still pouring down in cold, relentless sheets.

Barefoot and trembling, Wilder sprinted across the muddy ground, past the edge of the property and into the forest beyond. He didn’t stop to think about where he was going or how far he could get. He only knew he had to put as much distance between himself and Anders as possible.

Branches snagged at his tunic, thorns raked against his legs, and the slick ground threatened to send him tumbling with every step. Still, he ran, the sound of his own ragged breathing mingling with the rain’s unceasing drumbeat.

His lungs burned, his vision blurred, and his feet stung with every step over rocks and roots. He felt the cold seep into his skin, chilling him to the bone.

Then he slipped.

A sharp cry escaped him as his foot twisted beneath him, and he fell hard onto the wet earth. Mud splattered his tunic and clung to his hands as he tried to brace himself. Pain flared in his ankle, sharp and immediate, and he clutched at it, gasping.

The forest around him seemed to close in, the trees standing like silent sentinels as the rain continued its unyielding assault. Wilder’s breath hitched, a sob escaping his lips as the weight of everything bore down on him.

He was hurt, frightened, and utterly alone.