A strong arm wrapped around my waist, yanking me back into a very male body as the other hand covered my mouth. His skin against my face smelled of the first frost of the season, as if he’d been clearing ice away from the flora in a garden to preserve the plants just a bit longer. “Shh,” he murmured softly, the spearmint of his breath caressing my cheek.
I thrashed in his grip as he lifted me off my feet easily, twisting my body from side to side and kicking my legs frantically. His hand slipped while he carried me further into the barn as if I weighed nothing, and the tips of his fingers pressed against the seam of my lips.
I bit down with all the strength in my jaw, not relenting when the coppery-sweet taste of blood filled my mouth. When any normal person would have shouted, or at least tried to get me to release his appendage from the vice-like grip of my teeth, he only chuckled in my ear and dragged me back to the pile of straw where I’d thought to relax.
“Careful, love. I just might like that.”
I mumbled against his skin, wincing when he tore his finger free without care for the way my bite tore his flesh open further. My teeth clamped together, the vibration of the impact radiating through my jaw. “Put me down!” I said furiously, my voice carrying through the otherwise empty barn.
He didn’t relent, giving me no choice but to fight against the threat I didn’t understand. He didn’t want me dead, not yet at least, but he also wasn’t letting me go free. In the world I lived in, especially with the Fae on the loose, the unknown was something to be feared.
I slammed my head back, aiming straight to take out his nose. He moved with lightning-quick reflexes, narrowly avoiding the strike that would have broken his pretty face. In doing so, his grip on me finally loosened enough for me to slip through.
I spun, moving with all the adrenaline coursing through my veins and snatching the dagger from the sheath on his belt. Twisting it in my hands the way Loris had taught me and ignoring the pang of guilt I felt over my lover’s death, I leaned into the thrust that pressed the sharp edge of his blade at his neck.
He blinked down at me in surprise, his features darkening, but he made no move to step away from the threat. He held my gaze, his body still and his breathing steady while I panted for breath and tried to fight my rising panic.
Why wasn’t he afraid?
He stepped closer, pushing the edge of the blade into his skin until little red droplets ran down his throat. He smirked as I bled him, that arrogant look broadening into a full-fledged grin when I didn’t back down and held my stance. “You’re a vicious one, aren’t you?” he asked, running his tongue over the top of his perfect bottom teeth.
“Only when it comes to pushy men who seem to think they have the right to touch me,” I snapped, leaning further into the knife against his throat.
“Fair enough,” he murmured thoughtfully, moving so quickly I didn’t have time to track what happened. His hand raised, shoving my elbow until the dagger slid across his throat, leaving a thin slash. Once it was clear of his throat, he disarmed me with the speed and grace of a professional, twisting the blade out of my hand and into his, until he threw it into the wood floor at our feet.
He shifted, drawing me into his arms, and lifted me off my feet. He tossed me gently, just far enough that my back hit the straw pile once again. Straw billowed up on impact, filling my face and hair with the itchy needle-like stalks that seemed to get everywhere.
His eyes dropped to my neck, and I swallowed back the unrelenting panic I felt when I could sense his gaze on that burning part of me that had been revealed in our skirmish by the shifting of my cloak. His square jaw tightened, teeth clenching down as he stared at the Mark, and something primal filled his gaze. “You’re safe with me,” he said, reaching up to grasp the collar of his hood. He tugged it to the side, revealing a swirling mix of black and white color on his golden skin.
“You’re Fae Marked,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the design as I brushed straw out of my hair and face and sat up. He reached into the pocket of his cloak once more, pulling out a waxed cloth canteen and holding it out to me.
“You need to drink. I suspect those lips are much prettier when they’re hydrated.” He stepped closer, holding out the canteen pointedly. Cautiously, I took it from him, staring into the small opening warily and sniffing the contents. Finally, lifting it to my lips, I poured the first drops of water into my mouth and groaned at the fresh taste.
The crisp water felt cool despite having been tucked into his pocket. I swallowed greedily and forced myself to stop before I was ready, in the interest of not taking all of his water. “All of it,” he ordered, touching the bottom of the canteen and tipping it up so that I had no choice but to swallow the entirety of it.
When I was done, he moved to the edge of the barn and the water pump I hadn't seen tucked behind a saddle rack, refilling the container immediately and tucking it back in his pocket for safekeeping. “Thank you,” I murmured, my eyes dropping to the spot where I’d sunk my teeth into his finger. I grimaced, wiping the sleeve of my dress against the corner of my mouth. The pea green fabric smeared with blood and grime hinted at how much of a mess I must look.
The night in the woods hadn’t done any wonders for my appearance, if the filth was any sign.
He closed the distance between us, taking a seat beside me and drawing my hands into his grip. I shifted, watching him with wary eyes as I tried to make sense of what he wanted.
Up close, the ruthless beauty of his features was overwhelming. He was nothing like the boys and men of Mistfell, and, as he unfastened his cloak and tossed it to the side, the first glimpse of just how broad his shoulders were made the breath catch in my throat. His tunic strained at the seams to accommodate his body, his trousers tight through the thighs as he turned on the straw to face me.
He poured water into his hand, raising it to my neck and cleaning what remained of the wound from the High Priest. When he’d finished with that, he held one of my hands out to the side and shoved the cloak out of the way and the sleeve of my dress up my arm. Taking out his canteen once more, he slowly poured water over my hand until I started to feel a little more human as the blood and dirt washed away, revealing my skin beneath the layers of filth that had accumulated since we’d left Mistfell.
When he was satisfied with how clean my hand was, he turned it over and inspected the thin cuts and the white scars that covered it intently. “What happened?” he asked, lifting the limb to look at the wounds closer. Soft, plush lips touched the back, the strong cupid’s bow of his mouth emphasized as it curved up into the barest hint of a smile.