He sniffs the wind once, like an animal.
I gape, mildly disgusted. “You can smell that? No. Impossible.”
His eyes gleam like hot coals. “If you don’t like it, take it up with the Immortals.”
I fold my bound arms into my chest, feeling pink-cheeked and mortified. All the while Wolf goes about setting up camp, I pity myself for having to be stuck with this beast of a man. He was right when he warned me he was an animal—but not a sweet one like my mice and birds.
He seemed nervous at the inn. Something happened while he was buying supplies. Whatever the innkeeper told him was significant enough to spook him away from the road to Middleford to take the forest road instead.
This detour complicates my plan significantly. Adan anticipated what route the ride would take through the major towns, and our rendezvous hinges on that path. Now that Wolf and I veered off course, Adan will have no way of finding me.
I still have his seashell, tucked into the cradle of my ear. It’s the only place I could hide it on my body. As badly as I want to clutch it now for reassurance, I don’t dare risk Wolf seeing. The man has the eyes of a hawk.
Well, Wolf Bowborn can’t see or smell or taste inside my head. My mind is my own. And that’s where I keep Adan, tucked away among my few good memories. Myst. Suri. Adan. The only souls in this world who ever gave a damn about me.
Supper passes with few words exchanged between us. Wolf leaves to take a piss. Myst seems spooked, uneasy, as she stamps her feet next to the tree where she’s tethered.
What is it? I ask.
A predator nearby, she answers. Wildcat.
I scan the dark woods, but if the wildcat is close, it isn’t inclined to speak its thoughts to me. I wonder if Wolf is already aware of it. If Myst can pick up on its scent, surely he can, too.
It won’t come near the fire, I reassure her. Besides, Wolf will protect us.
She snorts, hardly comforted that our safety is secure in Wolf Bowborn’s hands.
When he returns, he says nothing about sensing a wildcat. He digs around in his rucksack and pulls out three apples—real, fresh apples that make my mouth water.
He tosses one to me. “Here. A fine dessert for a lady.”
I catch it with my bound hands. His tone was heavy with irony, but an apple is a decadent treat to me. I smooth my thumb over its glistening peel like it’s a precious jewel.
To my surprise, he offers the other apple to Myst in his open palm.
She snorts. Poison apple?
Oh, stop being so suspicious, I say to her. There would be easier ways to kill you.
She snorts again, doubtful.
I take a theatrical bite to demonstrate to her it isn’t poison. Still dubious, she accepts the apple from him but bares her teeth as she does.
He snorts right back at her.
For a few minutes, the three of us enjoy the apples. The Sisters grew apple trees in the convent orchard, but I was rarely permitted a taste. Instead, they made me mash the fruits for long hours into fermented cider that they’d guzzle by the gallon, despite their abstinence vows. At night, the scent of the juice on my skin drew the bees that lived in my thatched roof. I let them crawl over me as I lay in bed, whispering to them that they were lucky to be able to fly away. They were always careful not to sting me—but one night, I rolled over on one accidentally. The prick of pain soon faded, but my face began to swell. My neck and chest itched so badly that I wanted to scratch my skin off. I’d heard of bee venom sickening certain people, but never knew I was susceptible. My throat closed up; I couldn’t breathe. In the morning, the Sisters found me unconscious, bees crawling over every inch of my skin to keep me warm. If not for them, I might have died. The Sisters drenched me with a bucket of cold water to shock me alert. Then, they made me return to work.
As the delicate juice now flows down my throat, my mood also sweetens.
The convent is behind me.
“So. Your name,” I say between bites. “Did your parents really name you Wolf?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the fire. “Didn’t know my parents.”
“Someone named you.”
He rolls his half-eaten apple from one hand to the other as distant thoughts scroll through his eyes. I don’t actually expect him to open his mind’s vault to me, so it’s a shock when he says, haltingly, “There was a—a thief. Jocki. He kept an eye on me as a boy. He used to set up street fights. Children aren’t allowed to fight for pay in Duren, but it happens.”
I raise my eyebrows. This situation feels delicate, like any sudden move will freeze Wolf up like a skittish rabbit. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
He looks at me oddly, like he’s never heard sympathy before. Then, he clears his throat. “Lord Rian saw me in one of Jocki’s fights. He decided a godkissed fighter around his age would make a good sparring partner, so his father, Lord Berolt, allowed me to train in the academy for the Golden Sentinels. That’s the Valveres’ private army. They gave me Bladeborn as a surname, then later, when they decided my skills were better suited as a hunter, changed it to Bowborn.”
“And your first name?”
“Rian started calling me that for my ability to track—like a wolf.”
I nibble the last scraps of apple flesh from its core. Softly, I ask, “What’s your real name?”
His head jerks to the side, an instant head shake. He doesn’t want to say.
“Tell me?” I swallow the last bite of my apple. “Please?”
His body flinches at that word as viscerally as if I had slapped him. I can tell now that kind words make him uncomfortable. They raise his defenses as much as if I’d drawn a knife. He throws his apple core deep into the woods, and I’m sure he isn’t going to tell me a thing for the rest of the night other than to bark commands.
But he quietly mutters, “Basten.”
The way he says it is rusty, like his tongue hasn’t made the sound in years. He immediately stands, as though ashamed, and finds something urgent to dig through his rucksack for. The patter of falling acorns, loosened by the wind, tap around us.
Basten, I repeat in my head. Something about it unlocks a door I didn’t see in him before. A godkissed boy on the streets, living on his own, blessed and cursed at the same time. Hell, it isn’t that different from how I grew up, only instead of the combat arena, I was caged by convent walls.
“It suits you,” I say encouragingly.
He snorts. “Basten the Bastard—you’re right.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Silence falls between us as the sun sinks further. The stars begin to make their debut overhead, one at a time like they don’t want to rush each other. We finish eating, and I take my apple core to Myst so she can savor the last bite.
He told me his real name, I tell her.
Doesn’t matter. Still don’t trust him. She sniggers derisively in Wolf’s direction before munching on the apple core. But the apple helps.
Wolf pulls a folded blanket out of his rucksack. Stalking over with that stiff way he holds his shoulder after a long day, he drops it in my lap with as little care as if it was a dirty sack. But it’s actually luxurious, soft wool that doesn’t appear to have ever been used, as fine as the coverings in my father’s manor house.