She climbs off my lap, her brow furrowed beneath her mane of wild curls and colorful ribbons as she glowers at me. “Yes, we are.”
“No, thank you.” Rolling to my feet, I collect the stick and three arrows I made during the night, along with some moss that will help start our next fire once it dries. Dampness hangs in the air; I would not be surprised if it rained this day.
“What does that mean?” Nia brushes her skirts like it is possible to clear the dirt clinging to the ochre fabric.
I kick some dirt over what remains of the coals, wishing there were a safe way to carry a few with us for when we stop. “It means I reject your friendship.”
“You . . . You can’t reject me.”
“I already have.” If Nia Quill wants something from me, it will not be friendship.
Ignoring the gnaw of hunger in my own stomach, I withdraw my pouch and hand her a stick of jerky.
“You are infuriating,” she clips before taking a bite.
She does not cough or make a face like she did yesterday. I am not the best jerky maker, but I like to think I am better than Gryff. If this was his jerky, she would have tears running down her cheeks.
Although, if he were here instead of me, he would likely have his pack filled with many items to make the journey more comfortable. He is always prepared for everything. Rain? Gryff has thought to wrap his tinder box in leather so that it does not get wet. Lose your knife? Fear not. Gryff has at least four extra blades on his person at all times. It is a wonder he does not pokesomething vital when he walks. Hungry? He might not know how to season meat, but he always carries extra, like he might one day need to feed an entire village on a whim.
I wish I could be more like him, especially with Nia’s life in my clumsy hands.
I must do my best to be steady. To think ahead and anticipate her needs. To not let her beauty or the sweet smell of her skin and hair distract me from my mission to get her home.
When I go to return the jerky to my pocket, my fingers brush the folded piece of parchment Nia gave me.
The one with a list of ways to show another fae you wish to make them your mate.
2. Always hold her hand.
Nia’s hands are stuffed deep into the pockets of her skirts.
Fear is a funny thing.
Nia looks as if she is about to leap out of her skin at every noise. Me? I am afraid of reaching for her hand and having her reject my touch.
If she can be brave, then so can I.
I hold out my hand.
Her eyes glisten as she pulls her hand from her pocket and places it in mine. My mind does not know what to do with this new development, and I want to say something to reassure her, but all I can think about is how soft and small her hand feels and how wonderful it is to have someone willing to lace her fingers with mine. To not feel so alone in what is surely the loneliest place in the fae lands.
Together, we step from beneath the low-hanging branches into the unknown.
Many rocks and boulders litter this landscape. Some might have been thrown by my arm. Not the boulders. I am not strong enough to lift those. But the small ones sprinkled across the dirt. They may have fallen just like we did.
The mammoth tree stands alone among the boulders. If we had landed anywhere else, we surely would not have woken again.
The idea of not living is a terrifying one. Mostly because we cannot be sure what waits on the other side of the veil. Although, knowing I would have passed through with Nia Quill does make the thought less distressing.
24
“Calloused hands are proof that a man is willing to do the work.”
— Nia Quill, An Observation
Maddox’s hand slips from mine as he peers up at the gray clouds, shading his eyes as if expecting the sun to appear at any moment. From the scraggly vegetation surrounding us, I’d venture to say the sun doesn’t reach this desolate place very often.
With my companion distracted by the canyon walls, I take the opportunity to study him in the dull light. His strong arms that held me through the worst night of my life. That cut chest and washboard stomach I snuggled against. The dark green smudge across his left side?—
