Still, they come, more soldiers pour down the trail.
I fight until the forest stinks of blood and shit and mortal terror. Until the screams stop echoing through the trees. Until the only sounds are the dripping of crimson from my muzzle and the thunder of my heart in my ears. Until the very air tastes of copper and death.
By the time I’m finished, there are ten bodies rotting in the dirt, their blood seeping into the hungry roots of Kasamere like an offering to whatever dark gods rule this place. The rain that started to fall washes their gore deeper into the earth, and I wonder if the forest will remember this gift.
I shift back and stagger, raw and naked and shaking with adrenaline crash, back to where I left Esme. She’s still tuckedsafely in the root shelter, exactly as I left her. Pale as moonlight. Perfect. Unmoving but breathing.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from the wolf’s howls. “It’s done. I got you. They can’t hurt you anymore.”
I dress quickly, pulling on what I can from my scattered saddlebags. Our horses wander back down the path, drawn by some instinct or perhaps by the sudden silence, and I thank whatever gods are listening for small mercies. I lift Esme with infinite care and drape her across the saddle again, then mount behind her, still bleeding from various wounds. Still shaking from the violence, but I’ll heal. My kind always heals. I need to get her to safety while I still can.
The road ahead is nothing but mud and shadow and the promise of more danger, but I ride it anyway.
For hours we flee through the deepening forest, and I’m on constant alert for any sound that doesn’t belong. My limbs grow heavy with exhaustion and blood loss, and I’m practically dead in the saddle, but I hold tight to my Angel and keep both our horses moving forward. The landscape around us shifts and changes in ways that shouldn’t be possible, but this is Kasamere, normal rules don’t apply here.
By the time we finally reach Briar Row, night has fallen like a curtain across the world. The rain pours in sheets that feel like ice against my skin. Thunder cracks overhead, shaking the very air.
The town materializes out of the storm like something from a fever dream. It’s small, ringed in ivy-covered stone walls and ancient fae wards that glitter faintly in the storm light like captured stars. I know the tavern instantly, exactly as Locke described it. A crooked wooden sign hangs from a rusted iron hook, swinging wildly in the wind: The Dog & Dagger. The building itself looks like it grew from the earth rather than beingbuilt, all weathered stone and timber that gleams wetly in the rain.
I stagger off the horse with Esme cradled in my arms, my legs nearly giving out beneath me.
The heavy door swings open before I can even think about knocking.
She stands in the doorway like some strange, beautiful dream, fae and something more. Dozens of silver piercings glitter in her ears and nose, catching what little light spills from inside. Tattoos coil up her arms and across her chest in patterns that seem to shift when I’m not looking directly at them, vanishing beneath a blood-red scarf that wraps around her throat. Her eyes are violet and slitted like a cat’s, studying me for a moment that feels far too long.
“Locke sent you. I’ve seen your arrival in the water,” she says, her voice like smoke and honey mixed with something sharper. “Bring her in. Quickly now.”
I don’t hesitate, don’t question how she could possibly know we were coming or what she means about seeing us in water. I’ve stopped questioning the impossible things that happen in this realm. They just are.
She leads me through the low-lit tavern, past empty tables and chairs that look like they’ve been waiting for customers who might never come. The walls are lined with charms that tinkle softly as we pass and old weapons that look well-used and recently sharpened. She opens a heavy oak door at the back, revealing a room that takes my breath away. It’s large and lavishly appointed for a tavern like this, clean, warm, and clearly well-maintained. Locke’s scent clings to everything: the bedsheets, the curtains, the very air itself.
“She’ll be safe here,” Lucky says, her voice carrying a weight of promise. “I’ll deal with the rest. Whatever comes looking.”
I lay Esme down on the wide bed with trembling hands, brushing the damp hair from her face with fingers that shake from exhaustion and relief. She doesn’t stir, doesn’t even flutter her eyelashes.
“Thank you,” I croak, the words feeling inadequate for what she’s offering.
Lucky’s already gone, vanishing from the threshold like smoke, leaving us alone in the lavish room that smells of safety and Locke’s protective presence.
The rain drums against the windows like war drums calling soldiers to battle.
All I can do is drop to my knees beside the bed and pray to gods I stopped believing in a long time ago.
My body slumps to the floor beside the bed, exhaustion hitting me like a freight train loaded with stone. Every muscle in my body screams in protest, and I can feel the crash coming, the inevitable collapse that follows an adrenaline high that intense. The room smells of dried herbs, aged whiskey, and oddly, cinnamon, but underneath it all is Locke’s scent, strong and unmistakable. This is his place, his sanctuary that we’ve invaded with our desperate flight.
I crawl toward Esme on hands and knees, my muscles screaming in protest with every movement. Blood still seeps from the arrow wound in my arm, the shaft long since broken off but the head still buried deep in muscle, but I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that right now. My hands find hers where they rest against the blankets, cold and still as marble.
“Angel,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to her knuckles. “Come back to me. Please, Baby, just come back.”
She doesn’t respond. Her breathing is so shallow I have to press my ear against her chest to make sure her heart still beats. It does, faint but steady, like distant thunder promising a storm that might never come.
The room swims around me as I drag myself up to sit on the edge of the bed, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. I’m light-headed from blood loss and the constant shifting between forms, but I can’t rest. Not yet. Not while she needs me. Esme’s clothes are soaked through with lake water and rain, and if I’ve learned anything about healing in my twenty-four years of life, it’s that wet clothes kill as effectively as any blade when shock and hypothermia set in.
I peel off her garments with shaking hands, trying not to notice how ashen her rich brown skin has become, how the subtle glow that usually radiates from her has dimmed to barely a flicker. Her body is limp as I maneuver her arms and legs, trying to be gentle, respectful, but efficient. This isn’t about desire or want. This is about survival, about keeping the woman I love breathing until help can arrive.
Once she’s stripped down to skin, I find a thick woolen blanket in a cedar chest at the foot of the bed and wrap it around her with infinite care, then tuck her beneath the heavy covers. The sheets smell like Locke, cedar and steel and something primal, my wolf bristles at the scent, but I force the territorial instinct down. My wolf has no place being jealous now. Locke saved us, gave us sanctuary, and besides, I’ve already proven tonight what happens to anyone who threatens what’s mine. The forest floor behind us is testament to that brutal truth.
“You should have seen me, Angel,” I murmur, brushing damp strands of silver-white hair from her face. “I was. . .I was what you needed me to be. What I swore to be for you.”
