Or she’ll die.
If I put it on… she’ll be the death of me. Because I’d rather die than force myself on her.
I breathe in, long and slow. Then, I fit it over my face. Magic ignites, sinking into my skin, binding me.
She’s going to hate me.
But she’s going to live.
Chapter 4
Florienne
Hope is the most dangerous weapon in the Labyrinth. Use it sparingly.”
—FOUND IN THE JOURNAL OF A FALLEN HUNTER
The Labyrinth is alive as I walk through its dark corridors.
I’m almost certain I woke up in the nemeton at its center, but the stone walls shift. Passages groan. Shadows move. I may be going around in circles. The air thickens with something damp, primal—something waiting.
Wrapped in this flimsy gown, I feel exposed and hug myself for comfort. I’m so stupid to have thought I could beat a God. What do I know about this place after being locked inside the Pen for a decade?
“I don’t need anyone,” I tell myself, ignoring the way my body trembles. “I never have.”
Yet, deep down, another voice whispers—But you did. Once.
Pounding footsteps grow louder. Low, guttural voices. A laugh, sharp and eager. Hunters.
The impact is sudden. Brutal.
A body slams into me from behind, knocking the breath from my lungs. Before I can react, I’m shoved back—driven hard against the icy wall. The black moss squelches against my arms, clinging to my skin. It looks like blood in the moonlight. Feels like flesh.
I twist, pushing back, but he’s too heavy. Too solid. Hot breath seeps down my neck—the stench of wine, sweat, and old meat.
“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs. His hands roam without hesitation. “Didn’t think I’d find a bride so soon.”
Not the Baron’s man. Not an assassin. Just a regular hunter.
My body is not for him to take. My blood is my own.
If he tries, I’ll end him.
One cut to my palm, one smear of blood against his lips—his body would wither in seconds. His body will forget how to live. But if my blood can create life, and it can also take… is it ever truly a gift? Or a warning? The Goddess abandoned us for a reason.
I exhale sharply, forcing control. Not yet. Not like this.
I go limp, a deliberate easing, to make him believe I’ve stopped resisting. He falls for it immediately. His grip shifts—less like a predator pinning prey, more like a man savoring his prize. His breath becomes uneven and shallow. Good. I let my fingers twitch against his chest, merely a touch, enough to make him think it was instinct rather than intent. My voice comes soft, coaxing, meant to feed his greed rather than challenge it.
“You’re bold,” I murmur.
“I’m—”
An arrow embeds in his throat.
A wet, choking gasp.
He collapses, twitching. I have little time to react before another hunter arrives. Another arrow. A thud. A gurgle. His body hits the stone.
