Gasping, I cry, “Don’t touch me!”
“Quiet,” he orders, low and hard. He moves his hand to feel along my back ribs, prodding and testing the skin gingerly, with a heightened sense of touch that seems to tell him cryptic details about my body.
He grunts low in his throat. “You have a cracked rib.”
I try to look at him over my shoulder, but he still has my braid in a fist. I hiss, “It’s fine.”
His grasp tightens on my braid. “It’s an old wound. Five weeks and a day. There’s still some bruising.”
He finally loosens his hold, and I twist away, tugging the borrowed shirt back down so I can face him clothed. Tipping my chin up, I snap, “I said it’s fine! It’s almost healed, anyway.”
His brows are set low, dangerous, like a predator. “Who did this to you?”
“Couldn’t it have been an accident?”
He doesn’t bother to respond to the suggestion. “Answer me, my lady.”
He isn’t going to let me get away with silence. My heart clenches like a fist, wanting to protect me from my memories. Lowering my eyes, I admit reluctantly, “I was a ward of the Convent of the Immortal Iyre. The Sisters struck me until a month ago, when my father informed them he’d sold me to a wealthy husband. Then they locked me in a room, tied to a bed, to fatten me up and let the wounds heal. I guess it wasn’t quite long enough. No one else has noticed the bruises, but no one else has your eyesight.”
Wolf’s gaze burns into me with the intensity of an August sun. “How long?”
He means the beatings.
“Years.”
He briefly closes his eyes. “How many years?”
“Twelve.”
His face reddens as he drags in a breath that trembles with rage. He holds it, then lets it ebb away slowly, and only then can he speak. “You’ll be safe at Sorsha Hall, my lady. I swear it.”
I snort a mirthless laugh as I tug the cord off the base of my braid, freeing the strands and combing them loose with my fingers.
He frowns. “You doubt my word?”
My eyes are sharp and rebuking as I work through my hair. “I think you’re so besotted with your master that you’re blind, despite your godkissed vision.”
His jaw tightens. I’ve angered him. I said the wrong thing. But I don’t get the impression he’s angry that I insulted him, but rather that I implied a flaw about his master.
Fighting to maintain composure, he vows again, “No harm will come to you in Duren, Sabine.”
“What do you call this?” I explode with more verve than I knew I had in me, as I toss a hand toward my naked legs. “You think I’ll be safe with a husband whose first action toward his new bride is to make her a spectacle?”
Wolf’s neck burns with threads of red. “This ride is meant to honor the gods.”
“Oh, come on, you know that’s bullshit!”
He hesitates but doesn’t deny it. “Alright, then, but it isn’t meant to shame you. If anyone, it’s meant to shame your father.”
My response is to tug his shirt off despite the fact it leaves me naked. I ball up his shirt and shove it against his chest, breathing hard. “And yet I’m the one punished, aren’t I, Wolf?”
Chapter 6
Wolf
The next few days pass with the same leers and catcalls, until every town blends together. I knew men could be vile, but the wicked delight that shines in their eyes as they line the road makes my stomach sour. My knuckles are raw from all the smart mouths I’ve punched, but it’s worth it.
To shut them up.
To relieve the needling frustration coursing in my veins.
And, dammit, to see her smile.
Sabine was uneasy at first, but gradually, she started to smile when I pummeled a mouthy asshole. Maybe after so many years on the receiving end of a stick, she relishes being on the team doling out the beatings. If I had to sucker-punch Immortal Vale himself, the King of Fae, to earn more of her smiles, I’d do it.
As we near Polybridge, the forest grows marshier. It isn’t long before we catch glimpses of the serpentine Tellyne River in the distance. Once we cross the river, we’ll head north, and that’s already got me prickling with dread. North means bigger towns, bigger crowds.
I’ll just say it—north means trouble.
For now, though, the road is quiet, save Myst’s hoofbeats and a jay’s chittering as it perches on Sabine’s shoulder. It makes a particularly loud squawk, and Sabine gives a gentle laugh that tinkles like bells.
What the hell do the two of them have to laugh about, worms?
My thoughts keep chewing over the abuse those Sisters doled out on her. For fucking years. It shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did to spot the bruises. That’s what I get for trying to be a gentleman and not gawk at her naked body. I should have demanded to inspect every inch of her before we left Bremcote. Fuck, how I’d like to get my hands around those old Sisters’ necks. Such hypocrites, claiming to be acolytes of Immortal Iyre. Me? I’ve never wanted anything to do with the Red Church. In name, the church upholds the worship of the old gods, spreading hope that they’ll reawaken. In reality, the church’s Grand Cleric is just the same scheming asshole as every other power-hungry ruler. King Joruun, in his palace in Old Coros, may be the official sovereign of Astagnon, but he’s getting old. And you can bet the Red Church is crouched like a fox, ready to pounce as soon as he dies and a power vacuum opens.
After the river crossing at Polybridge, I feel at ease enough to allow a stop at an inn for a midday meal. I’ve been running Sabine ragged, anxious to get her to Duren, and she deserves to rest her ass on a chair for once.
The Stargazer Inn, named for Immortal Thracia, Goddess of Night, is barely more than a few boards slapped together, but there’s a spacious common room with a large fire in the hearth warming a soup kettle. One side of the common room holds shelves with staples for purchase—rope, tin pots, flour sacks. Wooden tables span the other side, occupied by a few patrons: two single men, a young couple with a baby.
“Can I help . . . oh!”
A white-haired innkeeper stops short in her boots at the sight of Sabine dressed only in her flowing hair.
“A meal, madam,” I order sharply, gesturing toward the kettle. “We’ll have a bowl of that soup for Lord Rian Valvere’s new bride.”
I allow the two men to take a brief look at Sabine—it’s only human nature—before extending a warning growl that has them both immediately fascinated by the bottoms of their tankards.
Satisfied no one is going to bother us, I drag out a chair and jerk my head toward it. “Sit.”
Sabine collects her curtain of hair in front of her as she slips into the seat. The innkeeper brings two bowls of soup, half a warm loaf of bread, and ale.
“Her horse is hitched outside,” I say. “Make sure it’s fed and watered.”
“Yes, sir.” The elderly woman scurries to the kitchen, where I hear her giving orders to someone.
As a chicken wanders in through the open back door, pecking at crumbs under our table, I relax as much as I dare. Being indoors makes me nervous, but something about this humble place, with its sturdy earthenware pitchers and cozy tallow lamps, calms Sabine’s pulse.