Page 139 of Blood of the Fairest

"We could…" My mirror companion trails off, running his hands through his iridescent hair. "I thought—no, I hoped that we might…Crones, why is it so fucking warm?"

Eris fans himself, struggling with words. He clears his throat, straightens his poet shirt, and meets my eye, but he's clearly flustered.

I fight a smile. "No one has ever been this adorably awkward while trying to suggest a casual hook-up before."

In fact, I've known guys in my world who just texted dtf when they were horny. No capitalization, no punctuation, no interest in emotional connection—just hunting for a willing fuck and then calling women bitches if they couldn't get laid after literally three letters' worth of effort.

Compared to the raging case of nonchalant apathy crippling the dating world where I come from, I much prefer Eris's obvious butterflies. The way he can't stop watching me everywhere I go.

The way he kind of…pines.

"Casual?" His expression turns stormy. "That's not what⁠—"

His sentence is snuffed out by the shout of the coachman before the carriage jolts to a halt.

I'm thrown forward roughly by the abrupt stop, but I scramble up at once to reach for the handle of the carriage.

"No," Eris warns sharply. "It must be bandits targeting this caravan at last. They might have archers among them—and so fucking help me, if you step out that door and are shot through the heart with an arrow, I will never forgive you. Wulf and the guards will take care of it. Stay inside, where it's safe."

As much as I crave feeling safe, and as much as his protectiveness is a turn on, I don't release the handle yet.

I hear another shout outside. This time, when I move the curtain aside to peek through the carriage window, my stomach flips.

Dark-dressed men in gleaming helmets race toward the halted caravan on horseback through a nearby field. It looks like there are two or three dozen of them, but I can't tell for sure thanks to the dimness of the falling night.

Just like Eris worried, some of the bandits are archers. Despite the speed of their horses, I tense when five or six men nock arrows before firing them at the Isenmerian caravan.

One guard is shot at once, falling off his own horse with a sharp cry. Another arrow cracks off the side of my carriage, which makes Eris swear. Isenmerian archers in the escort are already starting to fire back.

I spot Wulf on his horse, galloping toward the quickly approaching bandits with the Isenmerian knights flanking him. He holds his bow in one hand. When an arrow whizzes just past his shoulder, my heart jumps violently into my throat—but the Huntsman nocks an arrow and fires it straight into the chest of a bandit.

I nearly turn the handle again, heart pounding. I know he's attacking them to protect the caravan like I told him to.

That makes it partially my fault if he gets hurt out there.

"Don't," Eris snaps, much closer now in the reflective paint inside the queen's carriage. "These thieves may be the sort who steal women. I don't want their slimy eyes anywhere near you. Please just stay in here and⁠—"

A girl's scream cuts through the air, filling my veins with ice.

Snow.

I'm moving at once, ripping open the carriage door despite Eris shouting after me.

As I hike up my skirts and race toward the halted carriage behind the queen's, I'm expecting arrows to fly past me like bullet sprays in an action movie.

But the attackers are close enough now that arrows have stopped flying, replaced with the sounds of a battle that electrifies the temperate night air. Thuds of weapons against wooden shields, the clanging of swords, shouts and swears.

I'm sure the Isenmerian guards are doing their best to fend off the attackers, but there are way too many fucking bandits.

When a particularly loud man's scream cuts off far behind me, I risk a brief glance over my shoulder as I run. The carriage holding the Bellevyrs is halted as they, too, are attacked⁠—

But clearly, they're in good hands.

Because Anika stands back to back with her former knight of a father, each wielding a sword expertly as they fight off several attackers' blades. It's already turning into a bloody fray, and I turn back around quickly just as Anika's sword plunges into a bandit's chest.

I skid to a stop at Snow White's carriage when the smell of cherry-juice-scented blood smacks me across the face.

Both her coachmen lie dead. One is slumped in his seat with an arrow through his neck. The other lies on the road, ruby red pooling around him.