“You’re not going to suffocate,” he said firmly.
The command had his voice deepening, but it didn’t stop my anxiety from ticking up another notch. Faintness circled.
Wilder released my cloak’s throat clasp with one hand. It cascaded down over my bag and hit the floor in a puddle. He moved to my wrist, peeling my glove off, throwing it aside. He let his thumb trace the inside of my palm, stroking, teasing in concentric circles. Then, he slowly lifted my arm up and over his shoulder.
A rustle made me gasp. Fingertips met wing membrane. I’d touched one before, but never with permission.
Wilder released my arm, letting me at his wing. Such trust in that one move. It made my heart ache with joy. His hands settling again on my lower back, he said, “You’re not going to pass out. Because if you do, I’ll have to break through the canopy to get into the open. And you’ll be responsible for ripping these beautiful things to shreds.”
I detected a hint of laughter, but also sincerity. He’d meant it; Wilder would endure that—the agony and the risk of permanent damage. The beat of my heart changed. It was still fast—too fast—but it shifted from panic to something far more intense. That feeling expanded in my chest, giving me wings and throwing me in chains. Because what if it didn’t work out? What if he rejected me? What if he found another reason for us to be apart?
Auntie’s voice was a whisper, urging me on. You’ll only find out if you try, darling.
I trailed lines across the membrane of his wing. Stroking gently. He shuddered and groaned a little. Emboldened, I moved onto the balls of my feet and encircled my free arm around his neck.
The twilight turned from oppressive to freeing, because his face was obscured in shadow, as was mine; I wouldn’t have to stare into the face of a winged immortal—a beautiful male—and see the scrawny human reflected there.
The girl with a thousand scars collected from years of abuse and neglect. The woman who’d endured absolute and ceaseless rejection from her neighbors. So that when the sentence for exile had been carried out, there’d been a tiny part of her—of me—that believed it’d been justified. And I’d survived, only to be thrown into slavery. To suffer the complete and utter destruction of self.
Because I wasn’t human.
I wasn’t even Serena Smith.
I was something more.
Maybe, whatever was between us would become another scar on my heart.
But … I had survived.
Now, I wanted to live.
I pulled my hand back from his wing and grazed my thumb down his jawline of stubble. His touch tightened at my back. “Serena.”
A whisper that caused our hot breath to intermingle.
The beats of his quickening heart reverberated inside my chest. It was an effort to remember how to breathe, to blink, to focus on anything but that rough, warm skin beneath mine. He dipped his head. I arched into his touch, waiting. Expecting …
Instead of ducking to meet my tingling lips, he moved so that our foreheads touched. “Not now.”
Not disapproving. In fact, his voice had gone as soft as butter. A slow purr. Gods, I was so ready to argue. Only, I never got the chance.
“I don’t want our first kiss to be in darkness. I promise that when we’re far away, when you’re safe, we can start.”
Wilder drew away, breaking my grip, then crouched to pick up my glove and cloak and handed them over. Once I’d slipped my glove back on and stuffed my cloak in my bag, he encircled his fingers with mine and pulled me forward. “Come on, you’ve got a trial to complete.”
I almost laughed. So much for being an instructor. He was actually leading me toward the nightshade now. Although it might’ve been for the best. Because stringing two thoughts together had become challenging, and a throbbing frustration prowled inside, scratching and tearing at the walls of my chest.
We walked in shadow for a minute more, then he came to a halt. I stayed close to him, blinking into the gloom.
“Through here,” he breathed.
Wilder took me through a particularly dense weave of hanging vines and grasping branches. I threw my arm up to shield my eyes from spikes and scratches. Finally, illumination. A cold sunlight spilled in, slicing through my vision, blinding me, momentarily.
I lowered my arm slowly, allowing my eyesight to adjust.
A glade of moss and fungi and toughened grass greeted me. For no trees grew near the thorn bushes, nor close to the inky pool that lay in the center.
I took a timid step forward, maintaining a safe distance. Surveying.
The brambles’ black thorns oozed nightshade poison, and with every breath, cloying decay stung my nostrils. The water was equally bloodcurdling: a hot spring that leaked filth with each bursting bubble, like pus from an infected wound.
“Gods,” I breathed.
Wilder squeezed my hand. “I don’t think they’ll hear you in a place like this.”
No … A forsaken place.
“Then let’s get out of here.”
Mouth tightening to the side, he said, “You should take this.”
Breaking our handhold, Wilder cast his rucksack onto the ground. He reached in and pulled out a leather pouch. Standing, he offered it to me. “It’ll be safer to store the thorns in there.”
Not wanting the extra weight while I retrieved the sap, I dumped my bag next to his and took the pouch by its strings. I drew my Utem?, picked a spot to the left of the pool, and closed the short distance to the brambles.
Wilder’s deep rumble of a voice came from behind. “Focus on a small area and cut slowly. You don’t want the blowback hitting your skin.”
“Thanks. That’s only the hundredth time today that we’ve cheated. Some instructor you are,” I joked lightly.
“My priorities always were skewed when it came to you.” An amused tone.
Always? A smile broke free, even when faced with handling a deadly plant. I dropped the leather purse to the forest floor and scanned for a stem that looked safe to hold. There were none. Every inch was thick with thorns.
There was nothing for it. I chose a spot and with both hands on the hilt, brought the blade up and started to saw carefully.
One drop of nightshade was poisonous. More than that meant death. And there was no antidote.
My instincts screamed to shut my eyes as fat droplets of sap splattered the ground like blood. But I kept my focus on the slicing motion.
A few stems fell away from the main beast.
Wilder moved to my side. “That’s enough.”
Relieved, I wiped the blade on the stunted grass and sheathed it before I bent to pick up the purse. Now to get the thorns in.
I loosened the pouch’s strings. Ever so gently, I tried scooping the prickly stems into the bag without touching them. That failed. So with a writhing gut, I prepared to grasp a stem with my thumb and forefinger. I’d taken leather gloves from the supply closet. Surely they’d be enough to protect me from the thorns?
Wilder blurred, his hand shooting out to grip my wrist. “No.” His stare locked on mine and stayed there as he unsheathed his dagger. “Together.”
A clammy sweat broke out on my body. “Okay.”
I opened the strings of the pouch as far as they’d go and placed it next to the brambles. Wilder used the edge of his dagger and a flick of the wrist to maneuver the stem. The thorns snagged on the sides of the bag. My heart thudded once and stopped.
Then, success.
Wilder sheathed his dagger and jumped up. I tied and double knotted the purse strings. As an extra precaution, I encased the pouch in a spare jacket and pushed it to the very bottom of my rucksack. My hands now sweaty, I shed the gloves and stuffed them alongside.
I straightened and shouldered my rucksack. Wilder moved to my side. He was putting on his own bag when his head tilted.
I heard a hiss.
Wilder crashed into me, pushing me to the ground, body and wings arcing over me, creating a shield for what came next.
A sharp whistle pierced the air.
A jarring motion and a growl.