EIGHT DAYS REMAINING
15
MAV
The forest remained doused in shadow when I woke. I lay there for a long moment, staring up through the ragged canopy, letting the quiet seep into me. My body wanted to rise, but my mind lingered on yesterday. The heat of her spine against me, the tremor in her breath, the way her fingers curled tighter when mine brushed over them, as if she wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. I’d memorized the shape of that silence between us. Alive and threaded with possibility.
I shouldn’t have touched her that way. Not like someone who had a right. Not like someone who’d earned it. My chest sizzled with the wanting, the restraint. The war I’d been losing against myself since the moment she tethered me to her cursed, impossible life. I closed my eyes, exhaled hard, and shoved the memory down where it belonged.
The weight of sleep gripped my bones as I sat up. I hadn’t meant to let it go that far. Saints, I knew better. But the moment I moved behind her to guide the swing, it stopped being about helping her split firewood and became the best mistake I’d ever made.
A mistake I would very much like to make again.
Perhaps I could start a massive bonfire.
Toss the logs into the river.
Anything that would require us to chop more firewood.
Quinn crouched by the embers of the firepit, coaxing the last of the heat into her hands. She didn’t look at me when I sat down across from her, which somehow felt louder than if she’d shouted. Her hair had slipped loose from its braid overnight. Several soft curls brushed her cheek in a way that made my fingers ache. I was desperate to brush the stray tendrils from her face. The tether buzzed in my chest, a reminder of the bond neither of us had asked for. Quinn busied herself with her cloak, her silence deliberate, her gaze fixed anywhere but me.
Right.
We were pretending nothing had happened.
Breakfast was a quiet, miserable affair: half-stale bread, a sliver of hard cheese, and Branrir’s excuse for tea, which tasted of boiled bark and resignation. Quinn studied the inside of her cup as if it held prophecies instead of leaves.
“Eat,” Thistle said, pushing a tin plate toward me.
I took it. “Good morning to you, too.”
Vesper padded over and dropped half a squirrel at my feet like an offering. “Fresh,” he announced proudly, tail curling high.
Branrir grimaced. “You couldn’t have brought something less…rodent?”
“Oh, and what did you catch in the woods this morning, cartographer?” Vesper goaded, green eyes narrowing. “Ungrateful,” he proclaimed and stalked off, muttering curses under his breath.
Every time I tried to catch Quinn’s gaze, she looked away. Every time I moved closer, she shifted. It wasn’t obvious or rude, but it was more than enough to drive me mad.
Fine.
Two could play this game.
As we started breaking camp, I made sure to stand a little too close. Passed her a waterskin she didn’t need. Brushed against her arm when reaching for a tent peg. Let my shoulder graze hers when loading the bedrolls.
She tensed. Bit her cheek. Pretended not to notice.
That’s when I knew I had her.
She finally rounded on me, huffing hard through her nose. “May I help you with something?”
I glanced up from the strap I was pretending to tighten. “I can think of two dozen ways you could help me,” I said, lacing my tone with suggestion.
Silence.
Her bright blue eyes locked onto mine as she closed the distance between us to mere inches. Then, dangerously sweet, she said, “List them.”
I froze. My brain emptied.
