The shout rises up again, but this time, it’s undeniably a collective cheer.
A gasp cuts me.
I’m jolted by the sudden throw of my foot from his lap, and before I can right myself, his cold hand snatches my jaw, firm, and yanks my face back in place.
The tip of my nose is smooshed against his, the iciness of his breath on my lips.
“You do what I say.” His warning is threaded with a growl that trembles me. “You do not speak.”
All I manage is a whimper.
His fingertips are harsh, digging into my cheeks, pushing out my lips in a pout.
I loosen a hitched sound.
His fingers slip from my face to my wrist, slick with balm. The rope he ties around my skin slips around the oily surface—andI note that he’s careful to fasten it loose enough to push two fingers between.
He doesn’t fasten the other side to his belt.
Instead, in a quick moment, he’s packed his satchel, tugged the strap over his head, grabbed the strap of my backpack, then kicked the canvas bag towards me, the one I forgot all about.
“Better for the walk,” he says, cold.
I look down at the canvas bag, parted and partially spilled over the soil.
I reach down for the boot poking out of the edge—and my mouth flattens into a grim line.
I should be pleased to see them, boots much better for the snow, the walks, like he said, with stronger, deeper grips and thicker soles.
But the worry inches into me, gnawing that bit more at my insides. It’s a worry I can’t acknowledge, not if he can sense me and my thoughts, my feelings, my whatever.
This one is too dangerous.
So I beat it down to the dark, ugly place it belongs and pull on the boots.
The laces creak as I fasten them in a rush.
And when I look up at him, I’m met with the sight of his sharp face, severe enough to twist my gut.
TWENTY
There is a whirlpool of warriors sucking into the gravel path.
The rope is firm in the cold one’s fist, so tight that his knuckles flame with angry blotches.
Swift, he weaves us around the abandoned, dug graves and headstones.
The tension doesn’t radiate off of him, it’s boltedintohim, like his muscles have hardened to steel beneath his bloodied leathers.
I stick to his heels, closer than I should, a tripping hazard, but with the obvious tension firming his muscles down his back, I’m a mouse sticking to the skirting of a wall.
The closer we get to the whirlpool of fae, the less strength the torch has against the growing gleam of campfires.
The warrior lowers it until the flames are out, and he follows the trail to the path. It’s only when we step onto the gravel that I can see around the solid muscle of his arm, and through the whirlpool of moving warriors.
Two fae stand firm in the centre of the commotion. Their grins are bright, eyes glittering as they’re dragged into fast hugs, and hands are coming down on their shoulders and backs and heads.
Unease flitters through me.
