“I never felt like I had a real family until I met Micah,” I find myself admitting, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “Until all of them, really. Even though they’re completely psychotic in their own special ways.” I can’t help but smile at the memory. “Gods, they’re all a little unhinged, but I care for them deeply. In their own twisted way, they care for me too. We all went through so much chaos together, so fast. Everything was madness and violence and pain, but it was also the first time in my life I didn’t feel fundamentally alone.”
He watches me in silence, his eyes unreadable but attentive, as if he’s cataloging every word I speak.
“My Tether to Micah is still there,” I continue, touching the center of my chest where I can feel that connection like a warm pulse. “Frayed and stretched thin from the distance between our worlds, but I can still sense her presence, Locke. Even now, even here.”
“Do you love her?” The question comes suddenly, unexpectedly, after a long moment of silence. There’s something carefully neutral in his tone, but I catch the tension in the way he holds his shoulders.
“Yes.” The word comes out soft but utterly certain. “Everything happened so fast between us. We were building toward something deeper, something more, and then there was Sam.” I shake my head, still marveling at how quickly my entire world had shifted. “I didn’t even realize my fated mate had been sitting next to me in classes for months before Micah ever came to HellNight Academy.”
His eyes widen slightly at my words, but he doesn’t respond immediately, processing this revelation.
I don’t look at him when I continue, focusing instead on the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above us. “Things between Sam and me changed incredibly fast once we figured out what we were to each other. As for Micah and me, well, she left what was developing between us open to our own interpretation when everything fell apart. She never demanded I choose or made me feel guilty about the bond with Sam.” The memory brings a bittersweet smile to my lips. “So yes, I love her deeply, but I chose Sam and love him enough to commit myself fully to our bond. We didn’t discuss our connection with Micah in detail afterward, but I know she understood my choice.”
Locke gives a short, almost harsh sound and clicks his tongue to urge his horse forward, deliberately putting distance between us. The sudden withdrawal stings more than I expected. I suppose he’s heard everything he needed to hear about the complicated tangle of my heart. The ache in my chest when he’s near me is proof enough that my feelings aren’t as neatly contained as I’ve tried to make them seem, but I don’t think he wants that particular confession right now.
Of course he ran. It’s becoming a frustratingly familiar pattern with him. I want to say more, but before I can urge my mare forward to follow, the dense forest around us begins to thin dramatically as we approach what appears to be a ridge.
The village of Stonehearth comes into view below us, small and quiet, nestled like a sleeping cat against the gentle curve of the forest’s edge. The buildings are simple and practical, constructed of weathered timber with thick, mossy roofs that seem to blend seamlessly into the natural landscape. Thin spirals of smoke curl lazily from a handful of chimneys, but the cobblestone streets appear largely empty in the afternoon light.
“Welcome to Stonehearth,” Rue announces with theatrical flair, trotting forward and executing a mock bow from his saddle. “Land of distrustful stares, awkward silences, and the occasional decent ale if you know where to look.”
He’s not wrong, I realize as we clip-clop down the main thoroughfare of the village. The few villagers we encounter don’t rush out to greet us with welcoming smiles. Instead, most peek cautiously through their curtains before quickly disappearing back into the shadows of their homes. You can tell immediately that this place isn’t accustomed to visitors, and definitely not ones who look like us. We’re armed, travel-worn, and carrying the unmistakable air of people on a dangerous mission.
A handful of fae hurry past us on the street, going about their daily business without sparing us so much as a backward glance, though I catch several of them whispering to each other once they think we’re out of earshot.
Locke brings his horse to a halt at the edge of the village square and swings down from the saddle with fluid grace. “Stay here with the horses,” he instructs, his tone brooking no argument. “I’m going to ask about Galin.”
He strides purposefully toward the nearest tavern, a sturdy building with a weathered wooden sign hanging askew above the door and disappears inside without looking back.
The rest of us remain mounted in the dusty road, our horses shifting restlessly beneath us. The animals seem to sense the tension in the air, they’re clearly in desperate need of water and a proper rest, their sides heaving slightly from our long journey through the forest. Rue continues humming softly to himself, but I notice his eyes are in constant motion, cataloging every face, every doorway, every potential threat around us. Sam is equally vigilant beside him, his posture alert and ready despite his casual appearance.
I watch the tavern door anxiously, my stomach knotting with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. We’ve made it this far safely, but something about the oppressive quiet of this place sets my teeth on edge.
Then I hear it. A sharp snap of tension in the air, like a bowstring being released. An arrow whistles past my head with deadly precision, but I’m already moving. Rue curses violently as he lunges forward, tackling me clean off my horse and sending us both crashing to the hard-packed earth. The impact knocks the wind from my chest, leaving me gasping and disoriented.
A second arrow embeds itself with a solid thunk in the wooden post of the tavern, exactly where my head had been just moments before. My horse whinnies frantically, dancing sideways in panic, but mercifully doesn’t bolt as Rue reaches up to grab her trailing reins with one hand while keeping me pinned safely beneath him with the other.
“Stay down,” Rue hisses through gritted teeth, already drawing his blade with practiced efficiency. All his playfulness has vanished completely, replaced by the deadly spy Locke described.
Sam’s response is instantaneous and terrifying. The shift happens so fast I almost miss it, one moment he’s human, sitting astride his horse with his hands clenched into fists, and the next he’s a blur of brown fur and lethal grace as he launches himself toward the source of the attack. He moves like liquid violence, dodging between buildings with supernatural speed and agility. Screams erupt from the villagers who witness his transformation, followed by the sound of doors slamming shut throughout the settlement as people barricade themselves inside their homes.
Rue pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness, keeping his body positioned protectively between me and the rooftopswhere our attackers might be hiding. His eyes scan the skyline with the focused intensity of a predator.
“Sweet Esme, are you hurt?” he asks, his voice tight with concern even as his sword remains raised and ready.
“I’m fine,” I manage to breathe out, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Sam?—”
“He’ll be perfectly fine,” Rue assures me with grim satisfaction. “Wolfie needs to draw blood right about now. Someone just tried to harm his mate, which means he needs this hunt more than he needs air.”
As if summoned by his words, a blood-curdling scream echoes from somewhere beyond the buildings, followed by the sound of snarling and a wet, tearing noise that makes my stomach clench.
Locke bursts from the tavern like an avenging angel, his blade already drawn and gleaming in the afternoon light. He takes off at a dead run in the direction of the commotion, his black cloak billowing behind him as he vanishes from sight around a corner.
I clutch Rue’s sleeve as we back cautiously toward our horses, both of us scanning the surrounding area for signs of additional attackers. The street has fallen into an eerie, unnatural silence that seems to press against my eardrums.
Then the sound of whimpering cries drifts back to us, followed by heavy footsteps. Locke and Sam emerge into view, dragging two bloodied figures behind them like sacks of grain. Both prisoners are dressed head to toe in black leather, their hoods pulled up to conceal their faces, with their arms bound securely behind their backs. One of them is openly weeping, tears streaming down his face as he babbles incoherently, while the other continues to snarl curses and threats despite his precarious situation.
Locke slams the more defiant prisoner to the ground with enough force to make me wince. “Who sent you?” His voice is deadly calm, which somehow makes it even more terrifying than if he’d been shouting.
