After Arion catches up to me, just past the marketplace, we don’t speak. We don’t discuss being swindled by shopkeepers, just as we don’t discuss the sudden tightness of the silver cord. He fixes his gaze on the surrounding orchard, weaving in and out of fat trees, his wings dislodging ripe apples and broken twigs with every other step. I maintain a steady pace behind him, focused solely on the grass beneath my slippers. I count the blades. I track the different shades of green. Anything—anything—to stop thinking.
All we have to do is enter the library. I won’t take anything this time. We can read what we need inside, and then Arion can fly us out.It will be easy. We will survive.My stomach turns at the thought, because it’s never that simple. Nothing in life has ever been easy for me. And survival—it’s not always guaranteed.
The unbidden memories continue to strike hard and fast. I can’t outrun them. Not here.
And just like that—another dryad uproots.
Smaller than the others, with ashen bark and skeletal branches, it charges with a rumbling groan. Root-legs wallop the earth. It swings its branches manically, round and round and round, a cyclone barreling toward me.Shit shit shit.
Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.
Arion flies in front of my path before it can attack. Flames dance on his fingers in threat.
“No.” My mouth splits into a horrid marionette smile, as if the corners have been stitched, and I grab Arion’s sleeve, yanking him away from the creature. “No violence. Happy thoughts, warlock.” I say it more for myself than for him. “Muffins, kittens, curtains, potatoes—”
Arion exhales a soft, startled laugh at the latter, and the dryad stills. Its spindly branches freeze mid-wallop. Even its mouth—a small hollow in the center, flashing sharp bramble teeth—quivers.
It’s… it’s working.
“Salt,” Arion adds.
“Peppermint,” I say, and the dryad’s mouth closes.Thank the fucking goddess.
Arion’s rough voice rises as he flings words as he would daggers. “Porridge.”
“Pie.”
“Parsnip.”
“Penis.”
He stops at that, whirling to glance at me with a judgmental brow. I blink innocently in response. Just as in the dress shoppe, I swear his lips twitch with an honest grin.
“Debauched,” he says now, an arrow loosed at me instead of the dryad.
I cross my arms, which only stands to enhance my magnificent cleavage.“Envious.”
“Absurd,” Arion counters, and now hedoessmile. A small dimple—an actual pinprick of joy—carves his left cheek.
I glance at the beastly tree to be certain I am not, in fact,absurd, and am shocked to find that it remains utterly still. A ravencawsabove before pitching downward and landing atop the dryad’s branches. The tree does not wince, flinch, or so much as twitch at the disturbance. Relief eases the tension in my spine.We actually did it.“That was close.”
“Thank Mortem.” Arion shoulders past me, continuing the trek through the orchard. “We finally found a use for your wicked tongue,wife.”
“I was running out ofPwords. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?” Plucking a ruby apple from the nearest tree, I clean it on my dress before taking a huge bite. My hunger riots at the first taste of it. Sweet white juices dribble over my lips, down my chin, and onto my aforementioned cleavage. I can’t eat it fast enough. When Arion hears the crunch, he turns. Then tracks the path of juice with his metallic gaze.
The cord between us tightens further, drawing me closer. Forcing my feet to move until he’s inches away. We walk in silence again for a moment, as I try my best to wipe the sticky mess from my breasts, and Arion’s gaze locks on to the horizon. His hand tenses at his side. Which is, coincidentally, near my side too.
Heat radiates from it. Fromhim.
I eat the apple faster. Mindlessly. Desperately. Arion glances at me, at my mouth, and tears his own apple from a nearby branch. He devours half in one bite, core and all, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.
“Pumpkin. Periwinkle. Papaya,” he says, seconds later. “Plague. Persimmon. Preposterous—”
“Yes, yes. You’re very clever, warlock.” I snatch the remaining apple from his hand and lob it between the trees, managing a more natural smile. “However, I thought ofPwords under duressandsaved our asses. So I am, technically, still better than you.”
“Youare the reason we almost—” He cuts himself off before we can anger another dryad, choosing instead to say, “I cannot wait to venture elsewhere.”
“You mean your sparkling personality doesn’t thrive here?”
