She tenses again when I take one slow step closer. Her grip tightens around the bone blade. Her whole body draws inward, ready to spring or collapse, she hasn’t decided which.
She spits again, hitting the ground right at my boot.
“Easy,” I murmur. “I’m not who you think I am.”
Her inhales turn shallow and fast. Panic. Another step. Another warning sound from her throat. This terrorized woman watches me with the ferocity of someone who survived long after she shouldn’t have.
I take in her trembling, her hollowed cheeks, the blood dried under her nails, the tremor in her fingers, and I know—there’s no leaving her here.
One more step forward, slow and measured, is all it takes for her to explode out of the crouch she’s been holding. She launches herself sideways, trying to bolt up the ravine, but her ankle gives out beneath her weight. She hits the ground hard, palms scraping against rock, breath ripping out of her in a sharp, broken sound.
She still tries to run.
That’s what undoes me.
She’s so far past exhaustion her body barely follows orders, yet she keeps fighting it. Fighting me. Fighting anything that gets too close. Running isn’t a choice for her. It’s the only thing she remembers that ever worked.
“Easy.” I step into her path before she can scramble away. “You’re hurt.”
She whips around and slashes at me with the bone knife. The blade catches the light at a clean angle—someone taught her where to strike, or she learned the hard way what violence buys her. The swing shakes from weakness, but the intent is sharp.
I catch her wrist firmly enough to redirect the blade before she cuts herself. She lets out a guttural, panicked cry, twisting her whole body to yank free. Her skin is cold under my hand, trembling with strain.
“I’m not here to take you back,” I tell her quietly. “I’m not one of them.”
She snaps her teeth at me—fast—biting down on the side of my hand because I didn’t move away quickly enough. Her jaw clamps hard. Pain stings deep, waking every instinct I have, but I hold steady, not pulling back. If I try to wrench away, she’ll think I’m retaliating.
Her gaze flips up to mine, waiting for the hit she’s certain is coming.
“Sweet girl,” I say, steady and warm, “if biting helps, bite.”
Her jaw loosens fractionally. Confusion pushes through the panic in her expression. She doesn’t understand gentleness. She doesn’t believe in it.
I ease the bone knife from her fingers and toss it behind me. She tries to grab for it, but her movements are sluggish, unfocused. She’s days past her limit. Her limbs tremble from dehydration and hunger. She shakes so hard it vibrates in the air between us.
“I’m taking you somewhere warm,” I tell her.
She spits in my face.
It lands against my cheek, and her expression shifts—waiting, bracing, shoulders curling to protect her head. Like she expects a fist, a boot, a punishment she already knows how to absorb.
I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. “Okay,” I say softly. “You get to do that too.”
She freezes. Everything inside her stills at once—the rage, the fear, the instinct to run. She pants hard, staring at me. Not giving her time to fall into collapse, I slip my arms under her, lifting her into my chest. She thrashes weakly at first, fists landing without force, legs kicking until they give out completely.
“Easy now.” I hold her tight enough to keep her safe but loose enough she doesn’t feel trapped. “I’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you again.”
She whines—a trembling, broken sound she tries to swallow back—but her head finally drops against my shoulder.
Her weight settles unevenly in my arms as I start toward home, light in all the wrong ways. She’s too easy to hold—and my body notices in a way I don’t like. Too tense to rest, too weak to fight. Every few steps, she jerks against me, testing whether I’ll drop her or restrain her or punish her for daring to resist.
I don’t do any of those things.
I adjust my hold instead, giving her room, letting her feel the solid press of my chest. Her fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt then release it just as fast.
Branches break softly under my boots, the only sound besides her ragged breaths. Her hair brushes against my throat, tangled and cold. She shivers with every shift of air. I tighten my arm around her waist to share my warmth.
“You’re safe,” I soothe. “I’ll say it until you believe me.”
