Wolf finally stands, tossing back his loose hair. Blood coats his bare knuckles. He wipes them on Thom’s shirt back as the man moans pitifully, the only sign he’s still alive.
Wolf strides back toward me as though nothing happened.
“Let’s continue,” he says, checking the sun’s position.
There’s no point in thanking him for defending my honor. He didn’t do it for me. He did it because another man dared to claim the property of his precious master.
As Myst walks on, I run the pads of my fingers over the cockleshell braided into her mane.
If I had any doubts that I had to escape this ride, they’re gone now.
Wolf Bowborn is a devil.
And something tells me his master is the same, only dressed in a finer suit and with a lot more coin in his pockets.
Chapter 4
Wolf
True to their word, no one besides that one peeping bastard watches Sabine ride naked down the streets of Bremcote, but that goodwill doesn’t last in the next town. Or the next.
Once we’re outside the boundary of Lady Suri’s influence, people flock to the streets, anxious to see if the rumor about Lord Rian’s shocking command for his new bride is true. They hang out windows, calling down slurs to Sabine. Pubescent boys snicker from the alleyways. Men hoot and holler, trying to get her to flinch so that her carefully arranged hair will give them a glimpse of curves they can beat off to later.
Through it all, Sabine remains a mask of indifference, almost as if she’s used to taking abuse and giving nothing back.
I’ll admit that I’m surprised, maybe even a little affected.
The little violet is made of tougher stuff than I thought. And frankly, that could be a problem. Pummeling that asshole at the start of the ride wasn’t just for Lord Rian’s sake—I wanted to impress upon Sabine the utter futility of trying to escape. Because I know how to sniff out a scheme, and she reeks of one.
First clue: All day, she hasn’t once asked me about Lord Rian or Duren and what her life will be like there.
Second: There’s that cockleshell she thinks she hid so well.
Third, the cincher: The taste of hope on her breath.
Put together, it tells me that Sabine Darrow has no intention of ever reaching Duren. If I had to guess, I’d wager some erstwhile lover gave her that cockleshell, and she plans to run away to be with him. Inwardly, I scoff at the idea that anyone would be so foolishly lovesick. Lord Rian will give her the world on a silver platter. She’ll never know a day of hunger, or cold, or pain.
But there could be pain, couldn’t there?
I shut up that internal voice as soon as it whispers in the back of my head. It’s true that Lord Rian can be unpredictable. It isn’t his temper that worries me—I’ve never seen a man more in control of his temper—but he tends to take out his frustrations in more calculated ways. He’ll drive a racehorse to run until it’s lame. He’ll pit brothers against each other in the arena.
And the things he does with the whores . . .
But Sabine is different, I assure myself, and scold my inner voice for doubting Lord Rian, who has given me everything. Sabine will be his bride. She’ll be his cherished prize to show off at Sorsha Hall’s parties as she converses with fucking squirrels to the amazement of his guests. He’ll want her pristine, protected at all times.
He won’t hurt her, I tell myself. Not like the others.
By the time we leave the next village, I can see the torment is wearing on Sabine. Though her back remains ramrod straight, dark smudges now ring her eyes, and the blood in her veins flows sluggishly.
“We’ll stop for the night soon,” I say, signaling to the forest ahead. “We’ll find shelter among the trees and a stream for the horse.”
She nods wearily, finally too tired to argue.
Some of her curls are still damp with spilled ale from a drunken group of men who tried to grope her in the last town, before I knocked the biggest one on his ass. The smell of it—sour brew mixed with the men’s pungent sweat—turns my stomach as much as the thought that their grasping hands were almost on her. Not that I’m looking—you know you are, Wolf—but Sabine’s skin is flawless, and something inside me will do anything to keep it unspoiled. Only my master’s hands belong on her.
In another half hour, we reach the outskirts of Mag Na Tir Forest, where the road winds among beech and oak trees. I lead us along a side path to a gently sloping clearing.
“Here?” Sabine looks around in bewilderment. “There’s no stream.”
I point deeper into the forest. “It’s fifty paces that way.”
At first, confusion pinches her pretty face, but then her eyebrows slowly rise. “Ah. You can hear it, can’t you?”
My gaze drops from her face to her upper chest, where her godkiss birthmark rides above her breastbone.
Do I tell her I can hear the blood in her veins?
That I can hear her little sighs, her exhales?
That the small slip of her fingers caressing that cockleshell is as loud as the crash of ocean waves to my ears?
“Yeah. I can hear it.” I toss down my rucksack and start clearing fallen limbs.
She gracefully dismounts and leads Myst in the direction of the stream, but I shake my head and point to the base of an elm tree. “No. I’ll water the horse. You stay there and don’t move.”
“I can—”
“Sit and stay there. I told you to obey.”
Her little hands fist, but she’s too tired to put up a fight. Letting out a huff, she drops to her pretty ass at the tree’s base. Good girl.
The routine of making camp is second nature to me. Clearing a space, collecting wood for a fire, checking the perimeter for any signs of wild animals nearby or, more dangerously, other people. Since Lord Rian pulled me out of the combat ring when we were both still boys, and years later put a bow in my hand, my life has been the hunt, the woods, the crackle and sighs of nature.
But this time, making camp is different. She makes it different. I find myself second guessing where to build the fire so the smoke won’t drift in her face, how to make a berth soft enough for a noblewoman. I spend so much time thinking about Sabine’s comfort that the moon is already up by the time I have the fire going and have led her horse to water.
Her stomach rumbles.
I stand up from stoking the fire, dusting off my hands. “I’ll hunt us something to eat. Stay here.”
She touches a hand to her stomach, eyes widening as it dawns on her that I heard her body’s hunger signals. She glances toward the darkness beyond the campfire’s glow, biting her bottom lip.
“I won’t be gone long enough for any danger to reach you.”
She swallows. “Okay.”
She hugs her knees. She’s shivering—fuck. Balled up like that, with her honeyed hair loose over her bare skin, she looks about as helpless as a fawn left alone by its mother.
Immortals help me.
I unbuckle my breastplate, tug my shirt free from my trousers, then drag it up over my head.
I toss her the shirt in a messy ball. “Put it on.”
Her hands knead the fabric as she looks at me with utter bewilderment. For a second, neither of us speaks. Finally, she says, “No dress. No chemise. No—”
“I know the fucking rules, Lady Sabine.”