Thistle shot her hand out, Hedge magic curling. Vines exploded from the ground, tangling with the mechanism and slowing the descent. We barreled through as the plants gave way. The portcullis slammed shut. Cries of pursuit rose at our heels.
“Hold tight,” Mav shouted over the pounding hooves.
I clung to him, skirts snapping like banners behind me.
Arrows hissed through the dark.
One splintered into a tree beside my head. Another nicked a lock of my hair, near enough, the heat of its passage burned. The road beyond the gate wound into the Elderhollow. Branches lashed at my bare arms, leaving stinging welts. Behind us, the forest glowed with the erratic light of torches. The guards were closing in.
“Left!” Branrir shouted. He veered sharply, leading us off the main path.
The trail broke into a steep slope, sending us hurtling downhill. My stomach flipped as the horse’s hooves barely found purchase, skidding through mud and leaves.
Thistle thrust a hand outward. Green light bled from her palm, and the forest answered with a guttural moan. Trees bent toward one another, their branches weaving together in a living net. Brambles surged into walls of green and black, tangling into an impenetrable barrier. The riders slammed into the wall of thorns. Horses screamed. Men cursed and shouted, hacking uselessly at the dense, writhing mass.
We burst into an open glade, moonlight silvering the clearing.
Thistle slumped in her saddle, panting, sweat streaking her temples. “That’ll hold them,” she panted, “but not forever.”
We pushed the horses to walk for another while, putting as much distance as we could between us and the capital. We paused in a thicket near a stream.
Mav dismounted and raised his arms. “Come here.”
My joints ached. My legs half-forgot how to function. He lifted me down, and the moment my feet touched earth, something inside me gave way. I pressed my face to his chest, soaking his shirt with sudden tears—not fully knowing why I cried.
He wrapped me in the fortress of his embrace. “I’m so sorry,” Mav whispered. “Saints, Quinn, I should’ve gotten there sooner. I should’ve?—”
“No,” I said, shaking against him. “Do not dare take that weight.”
His hold tightened. I tipped my face up. His eyes shone.
“You came back,” I said, brushing my thumb along his cheekbone.
“I’ll always come back to you,” he said hoarsely.
I rose onto my toes and kissed him. A promise sealed where words would fail.
The fire cast restless shadows over bark and branch. I stood on the perimeter of the circle of warmth. Branrir, Thistle, and Vesper had all long since retired to tents on the other side of the camp, exhausted from the day’s events. The shredded ruins of the wedding gown clung to me like a stubborn ghost.
“You’ll freeze out here.”
I turned to find Mav holding out a blanket—dark and worn, smelling of the unnamable scent of him.
“Will you help me?” I asked, my voice a thread of sound. “With this?”
His gaze flicked to the ruined dress, then back to me. For a heartbeat, something unreadable passed through his eyes—hunger, reverence, rage at what that gown symbolized.
“Of course.”
He wrapped the blanket around my shoulders as we walked to the small tent he had pitched. The flap whispered shut behind us. I turned my back to him, dropped the blanket, and gathered my tangled hair over one shoulder.
“The buttons, please.”
His fingers found the first fastening.
Each button slipped free beneath his touch, the motion feathering my spine. By the third button, my breath had shortened. By the fifth, my heartbeat was erratic. When he reached the last, his hands stilled at the small of my back. The heat of his palms seared through the fabric.
The bodice sagged loose at my shoulders. I caught it with one hand and faced him. Our eyes met. The air thickened, heavy with longing and question. I let the dress fall. The ruined silk sighed as it pooled at my feet.
