She cast one last look back at the man sprawled against the bark, the knife’s empty scabbard on his belt. “Good-bye, Hunter,” she said softly. Then she nudged Grimm into motion and rode away, deeper into the forest, farther away from the only life she’d ever known.
Behind her, Hunter slept on, ignorant of how many lines he had just crossed and how little he could ever tell the queen.
Chapter twelve
Hunger and Lies
Hunterwokewiththesun in his eyes and grit in his teeth. For a few blessed seconds, he didn’t remember where he was or why his body felt like it had been dragged behind a cart. He only knew that the ground beneath him was hard, his back ached, and his mouth tasted like stale fear. Then the memories crashed in.
Liora’s promise. Snow White’s throat under his knife. Her voluptuous breast in his hand. Her body against his. His own, traitorous release inside of her. He groaned and rolled onto his side, one arm flung over his eyes.
“Oh gods,” he said to the sky. “What have I done?”
He pushed himself up to sitting, joints popping. The clearing looked different in daylight: less like a secret world, more like a patch of ordinary forest. Birds flitted in the branches overhead. Somewhere nearby, water trickled.
Snow White was gone. So was Grimm. And his knife? Only the trampled grass and a few torn threads of cloth on the rough bark of the tree bore witness that she had ever been there.
He should have felt relief that she’d run. That he wouldn’t have to look at her cooling body and tell himself it had been necessary. Instead, a different dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Liora. “She’ll know,” he whispered. “She always knows.”
He pressed his palms to his eyes, hard enough to see bursts of color. He could not tell her what had really happened. Not the failure, not the weakness, not the way he had turned a murder into something fouler in its own right. The queen had no idea how far he’d gone. If he lied—if he said he’d done the kill quickly, cleanly, as ordered—how would she ever prove otherwise?
He could chase her. Try to cover his sin with belated duty. Or he could turn back and weave the neatest, safest lie he could manage. He stared at the faint hoofprints leading deeper into the woods, then at the direction of the castle, where Liora’s promise waited like a glinting hook. In the end, he did what he always did: he turned his horse toward the queen.
The ride back felt shorter than the ride out, though his muscles complained with every step. He rehearsed the story in his head with each hoofbeat. Found her. Did as ordered. No, there’s no body—the forest took it, or wolves, or the river. Yes, I’m sure. No, Majesty, I would not lie to you. As a soldier, he hated himself for his traitorous act. As a man, he understood. All he ever wanted was Liora. He eased his guilt by renewing his devotion to his queen as he fled the scene of sin.
He imagined Liora’s gratefulness. Thanking him with her body nightly. Appreciating him with her warm mouth. His pants felt suddenly tighter. He questioned his own thoughts. Would she follow through this time? He cared less of the kingdom she promised, and more of herself. He pleaded with his own mind. He wanted her devotion more than the throne.
By the time the castle’s gray walls rose between the trees, the lie he conjured had worn grooves in his tongue. The guards onthe gate towered above him as he approached, squinting down. “Captain!” one called, surprised. “We’d not expected you back so soon.”
He forced an innocent smile. “Duty doesn’t wait,” he said.
They saluted, chains clanked, and the gate lifted. Inside the courtyard, the usual clatter of morning had begun: buckets sloshing, boots on stone, the murmur of servants exchanging gossip. A few heads turned as he rode in, noting the mud on his cloak, the weariness in his posture.
He dismounted stiffly and tossed his reins to a waiting boy.
“See to him,” he said. “Rub him down well.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He took the stairs to Liora’s chambers two at a time, ignoring the protest in his knees. Outside her door, he paused for half a breath. Then he knocked once and entered without waiting for an answer.
She was already awake, of course. She sat by the window in a loose robe, hair unbound, face bare of paint. Even like this—especially like this—she radiated a dangerous sort of beauty. The kind that drew blades as easily as it drew men.
Her eyes flicked up as he entered. “Well?” she asked. One word, razor-sharp.
He bowed, more deeply than usual. “It is done,” he said. “She won’t trouble you again.”
Silence pulsed between them. “Show me,” Liora said.
His mind scrabbled for purchase. “Majesty—”
“You know,” she cut in. “You’ve led men long enough to understand what proof looks like. Where is it? A lock of hair? A scrap of dress? A finger?”
Revulsion coiled in his gut. He wished, absurdly, that he had thought to cut some prize from the girl while she lay unconscious under his knife. “I—” he began. “She fell into theravine,” he blurted, the lie tumbling out. “When I cornered her. We struggled. She lost her footing. The river… took her.”
It wasn’t what he rehearsed. It wasn’t even a good lie. But once started, he had to finish it. “The current was too strong to go after her,” he added. “The rocks—” He spread his hands. “There would have been no body left to find.” He braced himself for her fury.
Instead, she stared at him for a long moment, eyes flat, unreadable. Then, slowly, she smiled. “You always did have a way with… messy tasks,” she said.
