21. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Mac

T he sound of knocking wakes me and it takes a moment to focus on the ceiling above me. The cottage. For a second I wonder if perhaps I dreamed what happened, but then I move to roll over and pain radiates through my entire body.

Glancing at the window I breathe a sigh, taking in the darkness outside, the sun hasn't risen yet. But who would be knocking on my door in the early hours? The knock sounds again and it takes me three tries to clear my throat and croak out a weak "Just a minute".

I push myself out of bed, my body protesting with every move. The dull ache in my muscles is a stark reminder that last night was no dream. My limbs are stiff, my skin feels raw, and the faintest touch against my bruised flesh sends fresh twinges of pain through me. How am I still standing after that?

With a wince, I grab my robe and wrap it tightly around myself, hoping it will cover enough of the damage. The soft fabric clings to the cuts and scratches on my skin, the sensation both soothing and stinging. I shake out my hair, and do my best to cover the scratches on my face.

Another knock comes, louder this time. I steady myself and take a deep breath before heading toward the door. The cool air from the hallway feels sharp against my exposed skin as I approach. My hand hesitates on the doorknob, but then I crack it open just a sliver. Through the gap, I see Bridget standing on the doorstep, her face full of concern. She seems taken aback for a split second, but if she's surprised by my disheveled appearance, she hides it well.

"Hi," I say, my voice rough. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

Bridget shakes her head, offering me a soft smile. "No, it's me who should apologize," she says kindly. "I should've known you'd gone to bed early to rest before your flight tomorrow. But when you didn't show up at the pub for dinner, I got worried."

Her words take a moment to sink in, and when they do, I frown. Dinner? Pub? I raise a hand to rub my face but stop when I notice the mud still caked in places, quickly lowering it out of sight, trying to think fast. "I must've fallen asleep after exploring the countryside. I lost track of time... What time is it now?"

"It's just after eight," Bridget replies, still smiling, though her eyes flicker with something like suspicion. "I came straight from dinner to check on you."

Eight? I close my eyes, trying to piece together the timeline. It must be the first of November. I rub my temple, trying to push through the fog in my mind. I somehow slept for nearly twenty-four hours, but my body is still exhausted. I take another deep breath and force a smile. "I must have been more tired than I thought. I completely forgot about the flight."

Bridget's concern softens into a playful grin. "Don't worry. I'll be here bright and early to take you to the airport. And tell you what, I'll even bring breakfast. How does a muffin and a proper coffee sound?"

The thought of food, of something normal, makes me sigh with relief. "That sounds perfect. Thank you."

"Good." She waves a hand dismissively. "Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

With that, she turns and heads down the path, disappearing into the night. I close the door gently behind her and lean my forehead against it. My body feels like it's been dragged through hell.

Groaning softly, I turn and head toward the bathroom, the thought of cleaning off the mud, blood, and... whatever else clings to me is daunting. I flick on the light and turn the water on in the shower to heat before stepping in front of the mirror. My reflection is almost unrecognizable. Bruises bloom across my skin, the scratches on my face look angrier in the harsh light, and the intricate markings from The Hunt are still faintly visible, though some of them have already started to fade.

I peel off the robe and step under the hot water. The warmth helps ease some of the pain, though every cut and bruise still protests. I scrub at my skin, trying to wash away not just the grime but the memories. The water runs red and brown at my feet, swirling down the drain like some sick reminder of what I've been through.

As I rinse the last of the mud from my hair, I let out a shaky breath. I seriously need a vacation after this vacation . The thought almost makes me laugh, but the sound comes out more like a pained exhale. There's no time to dwell on it, though. Tomorrow, I'm getting on that plane, and I'm putting this place behind me.

Stepping out of the shower, I reach for the towel, dabbing gently at the parts of my body that sting the most. As I dry myself off, I cautiously glance in the mirror again, expecting to see the same battered reflection staring back at me. To my surprise, it doesn't look as bad as it did before. Most of the cuts and scratches seem to have started healing faster than they should have, some already faint and barely noticeable. The marks of The Hunt on my chest and arms remain, standing out in sharp contrast against my pale skin.

I step closer, fascinated. The markings are beautiful, almost delicate—filigree patterns that spiral and twist in intricate designs. Among the delicate curves on my chest are vines, entwined through the filigree with tiny thorns and leaves decorating them. Given The Huntsman's fondness for using vines to ensnare me, it feels oddly appropriate. The longer I look, the more hypnotic the pattern becomes.

I reach up, tracing the vines with my fingers, feeling a slight tingle as if the markings are still alive, still moving under my skin. I know they will fade soon as he said, but a strange urge stirs within me— I need to remember this . Not for the pain or the terror, but for the beauty of it, for how it felt like a part of me.

I should paint this . I want to recreate the pattern, let my hands capture the design before it disappears completely. A piece of The Hunt, immortalized on canvas.

But there's no time for that now. The clock is ticking, and I still have to pack. My flight is early in the morning, and I've lost nearly an entire day to... whatever that was. I linger for a moment longer in front of the mirror, the weight of it all sinking in. As terrifying and painful as the night was, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.

But leaving also means saying goodbye. I know I won't ever see Cianán again, and the thought makes my chest tighten with something close to sadness. It took me longer than I care to admit to piece everything together, but now it's clear—it was him. It had to be. I recognized his touch, the way he made my body hum with pleasure, the way he held me in a delicate balance between fear and something far deeper. Even now, the memory of his fingers sends a shiver down my spine.

It was him all along.

A part of me wishes I could stay—just to see him one last time. But the rational part of my mind knows I can't. I have to go. All I have left are memories, vivid and impossible to forget, but they're mine.

I resolve to take a photo of the markings before they fade completely, a reminder of what I survived, of what I experienced. After that, there's nothing left but to pack and leave this place behind.

As I start to tuck my clothing back into my suitcase, the single fabric pouch I left in there when I unpacked catches my eye. My thoughts go to the question the Huntsman posed, about the oath that I broke, as I let the contents slide out onto my palm. The pendant and necklace in my hand seem to glow with their own light, something I never noticed before, but then everything here seems to be like that since I arrived.

But the memory of my great-grandmother pressing it into my hand is as clear as though it were yesterday and not years ago. Before she died.

"Swear it to me, áedán ," her voice was still strong though her body was frail. "Swear you won't ever take it off, it will protect you."

I had sworn and worn the pendant for a long time. I can't even recall why I removed it, what could have made me go against my word to someone I loved so dearly.

With a sigh, I put it back on, feeling the warmth and reassuring weight of it against my skin. I run my thumb over the pendant, tracing the delicate engravings that I never really studied before. It had always just been there—something I wore out of love for my great-grandmother, not because I believed in its supposed power.

But now, in the wake of everything that's happened, I wonder if she knew more than she ever let on. If she understood what lay ahead of me, what this place could bring into my life.

Either way, I won't take it off again. Not after this.