My fingers curl around his collar. I draw him closer, needing more of that scent, needing to know why. A memory slamsinto me, Drayven at fourteen, pressing against my spine in an orchard.
“You’re holding it wrong, Flori.”
The scent of apples. His warmth at my back. The way he says my name, all amused affection.
“Here, let me show you.” His hand slides down my arm to the dagger in my amateur grip. “By the blade, Flori, not the hilt.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Keep showing me what to do.
He scoffs. “If you truly want to join the military with me, learn to take orders.”
He helps adjust my aim for a green apple balanced on a stack of crates. His hands are sure and steady. I struggle to concentrate on his instructions, but words like ‘target longer’ and ‘hilt first’ resonate. When he steps back, I throw and hit the apple dead center. It flies off the crate and embeds itself on the tree trunk behind it.
His whoop of triumph is louder than mine. “You did it!”
“Of course I did,” I shoot back, fighting my grin. “I knew how to do it all along.”
“Sure you did.” He strolls to the apple and picks it up. The pieces split in his fingers, and he laughs. “Admit it. You need my help.”
“As if I’ll ever admit to—” He wedges the apple between my teeth, shutting me up with an arch to his brow.
“What was that?” he prompts, placing his hand behind his ear. “Thank you, oh wise one?”
When I return to myself, I find the Huntsman’s forehead pressed against mine. He is tense and breathing low through his nose, half growling and ragged. His fingers flex on my shoulders like he’s fighting to let go, but can’t.
Drayven is dead.
Dead.
Because of him.
“Get off me.” I shove him hard, but he doesn’t budge. He is as solid as the walls wedging us. I choke up, shake my head, and wipe the impression of him from my lips. My thorn tiara slips further. I try to fix it but can’t focus. My hair pulls and tangles, and I stifle a whimper.
His warm, large hand envelops mine. The sensation sends a wave of comfort through my body, but my mind rebels. Ultimately, I do nothing but stand still while he adjusts my tiara, his fingers trembling yet determined to untangle the mess. Nothing about him matches my memory except that mask. I hate that it’s making me hesitate. I hate that his touch is so caring.
“Do you even think about the women whose lives you ruin?” I whisper. “Or the ones who try to protect them. The ones they loved. I hate you.”
His eyes widen. “You what?”
“I hate you.”
My words snap something inside him. His shoulders deflate. “I know.”
Then he is gone, dashing through the foliage. Moments later, I hear the sounds of a brutal battle. The three hunters must have been nearby, waiting. Wet crunches of blades meet flesh. Gurgling, choking, and bones breaking. Three men fight for their lives but don’t stand a chance. The Huntsman dispatches them without mercy, reminding me of who he really is.
My fists clench so hard that my nails bite into my palms. Heavy footsteps get closer, louder. The veil of foliage rustles, and I tense, ready to fling my welling blood in his eyes. But the Huntsman remains outside.
“Go on,” I taunt. “Do it. Kill me.”
“You think that’s what I want?” His voice is low, edged with something unreadable.
“I know what you are.”
“What am I?”
“A monster.”
His breath catches. I think I’ve hit a nerve, but then he growls, “Run, Flori. While you still can.”
