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.
And that, in turn, relaxes me.
As I tear into the bread, I watch her spoon a hunk of potato toward her mouth, only to pause, looked fixedly at the chicken, and then offer it the morsel instead.
My toe taps anxiously under the table. Four days on the road now, and she still hasn’t asked about Lord Rian or Sorsha Hall. That means that even after my theatrics with the rope, she still plans on never reaching Duren.
I sigh. Foolish girl.
Trying to sway her is useless, if she has her heart set on escape. I suspect she will have to learn her lesson the hard way, but I find myself piping up to try to steer her away from disaster.
“You’ll be a good match,” I say gruffly. “You and Lord Rian.”
She gives a scoffing laugh as though she doubts my words but is willing to humor me. “What makes you say that?”
I shrug. “You’re clever. You’re observant. Lord Rian will like you.”
“I can match his wit at his mind games, you mean?”
I hesitate. Oh, little violet. No one matches Lord Rian at his games. But that’s a lesson for her to learn another day.
At my pause, mischief sparkles in her eyes. “Wolf, you came dangerously close to complimenting me just now, did you know that?”
A silence moves in between us. For four days, we’ve passed long hours at each other’s sides, and grown familiar with each other’s habits, but we’ve spoken only when necessary, and about practical matters. This hint of banter throws me. For my whole life, I’ve been in the company of other men. First in the fighting rings, then in the army barracks, and now in the hunting regiment. I’m used to gruff ribbing, but this is different.
Sabine and I aren’t friends. We never will be. Every part of her belongs to someone else—even her quips.