At some point, my vision blurs, the trees smear together, and my head droops forward.
The next time I wake, the black above the branches has thinned to a flat, colorless gray. The cold has sunk so deep into my bones that I’m not sure I’ll ever be warm again. My throat is raw, my ribs throb with every breath, and my fingers sting. I’m so thirsty that my tongue feels swollen, sticking against the roof of my mouth.
The fae is no longer in his spot against the tree. He’s standing inside the mushroom circle, head tilted slightly in my direction, eyes closed. He must have moved while I was asleep. I didn’t hear him. He could have killed me. The thought chills me further.
His fingers flex, then straighten.
I press my spine harder into the invisible wall at my back. Ican’t look away. All I can think about is that hand on my throat, his foot slamming into my ribs.
His eyes open.
Those pale gold eyes find me across the hollow. Every muscle in my body locks.
He steps out of the mushroom ring and comes toward me.
I should get up. I should run. But my legs won’t obey me, and even if they did, there’s nowhere to go. The barrier is solid at my back, and he’s already halfway across the hollow, moving with those long, unhurried strides.
Two more steps.Three. Then he’s standing over me. I have to crane my neck to see his face, past the antlers casting shadows across his features.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. My throat is too dry, and my tongue sticks to my teeth. It takes two attempts before I manage to speak.
“I won’t run.” My voice comes out thin and frightened. “I swear I won’t. Please don’t hurt me.”
His hand shoots out.
I flinch, arms flying up to shield my face. But he doesn’t hit me. His fingers close around my wrist instead. His grip is so hard I know there will be bruises later.
“Don’t.” It comes out as a whimper, and I hate myself for it.
He ignores me and lifts my hand between us, turning it palm up, and examining it in the early morning light. Dirt is crusted deep into the lines. Dried blood rims the ragged edges of my nails.
I’ve never been this filthy. Never been thishelpless.
Never been this scared.
His other hand rises, and for half a second it hovers above my palm. I don’t understand what he’s doing, what he wants, and I’m too scared to ask. His finger runs slowly along each ofmine, tracing the bones beneath the skin.
Is he going to break them?
I jerk my arm, trying to pull free, and pain lances through my already-tortured shoulder. His grip doesn’t loosen. His fingertips drag in a slow line across my palm.
At first my brain refuses to process what is happening. A thin dark line appears on my skin. It doesn’t look real. It looks like something being done to someone else, to a hand that isn’t attached to my body.
Then the pain arrives.
Heat rips across my palm. I gasp, my fingers curling inward, to close around the wound and protect it. He forces them straight.
“No!” The word tears out of me. “No. Stop!”
He doesn’t stop.
Blood wells along the cut. It pools in the center of my palm, then spills over. Warm ribbons run between my fingers, drip from my knuckles, and fall to the forest floor in fat, dark drops.
The sting sharpens as cold air hits the open wound. My hand jerks in small, useless spasms that I can’t control. His fingertip is still pressed into my palm, the edge of his nail turning crimson.
He’s watching the blood and the expression on his face … the patience, thehunger…
My free hand claws at his forearm.
