Page 21 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

He watches me, his jaw so tight, I think his teeth might crack. His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, but the hand holding the dagger remains steady.

“Whoever you’re trying to save, I can’t help them,” I repeat.

The man narrows his eyes, his silence only setting me more on edge.

“Aye. I ken better than to expect help from monsters.” He spits the last word, but abruptly pulls the dagger away, and I almost sob in relief. I am so tired of being beaten. Of being an acceptable place for the grieving to come to release their anger.

He takes a second to appraise me, his steely eyes skating down my entire body until it reaches my chain. It lingers there, where blood trickles from where the cuff has grown tighter with every attempt to escape, cutting so deep into my ankle my skin has begun to heal over top the metal. After a long pause, he turns, placing his fingers in his mouth and whistling.

“Who are you calling? Why are you here?” I ask, searching the glen and the trees. I wait for more soldiers to come, but instead, a horse as black as night appears, overfilled satchels strapped on each side.

Even through my fear, my eyes snag on the bags. Could the items I need to complete the spell be inside? Maybe he has his naming pendant…

He pulls his sword from a sheath on the saddle, and all thoughts of the spell dash from my mind. A tremor wracks my body as the memory of the last time a sword was plunged into my chest flashes through my mind.

“If you’re going to hurt me, get on with it,” I say, voice shaking. Any attempt at begging for mercy in the past has only spurred on my attackers, like ignoring my pleas gives them an extra thrill. I do not want that from this man. Not when he has so much magic and a heart full of hate.

It’s in every line of his face. The tension in his posture. The way this stranger despises me is so visceral, it feels as if his rage is wrapping around my heart and gripping, trying to stop its steady rhythm.

“I willnae hurt you,” the man says gruffly, stabbing his sword into the ground and grabbing a canteen.

Disbelief courses through me. Is it possible he’s telling me the truth? He hasn’t asked me a question. So if not to hurt me, why is he here?

“You won’t…” I say, watching his rigid, calculated movements. The sword is still too close for my comfort, and I learned long ago never to trust a man at his word. I take a subtle step away from it.

His jaw bunches, and he rubs his forehead, but he doesn't look at me. “There’s no valor in attacking a woman in shackles,” he says.

The statement gives me pause, because if he means it, he is the first in a century to think so. I have been harmed more times than I can count, and each time, my attacker clearly felt it justified.

He eyes me as he takes a swig of water. His throat bobs as he drinks deeply, the muscles in his neck contracting as he swallows. It only emphasizes how strong he must be. The pain he could inflict on me if he decided to do so. The man puts the cap back on the bottle and tosses it onto the ground with a thud.

His gaze settles on my split lip and bruised temple. “What happened there?” he asks, wiping his mouth.

“Besides another man coming to assault me?” I snap before I can consider if my anger might cause him to reconsider his words.

His lips curl in disgust, and it stokes the fire deep within me. Will nothing ever be enough for these men who come here, seeking revenge for something out of my control?

“What? Angry he didn’t do worse? That he didn’t kill me?” I add, my instincts of self-preservation dashing away in my frustration. What’s the worst he can do to me? Nothing I haven’t already lived through.

His shoulders straighten. “It is my understanding that you, Washwoman, cannae die.”

My lungs constrict, the glen suddenly feeling too small. “Who are you?” I ask again, but he remains silent, defiant. Is that what it is? Is killing me a challenge for him? “Is that why you’re here, then? To torture me until I beg for the death I cannot have? To see for yourself if the rumors are true that only the Fates can end my pathetic excuse of a life?” Revulsion churns in my stomach.

He crosses his arms across his broad chest, his muscles bunching and bulging, and an image of his hands wrapping around my throat flashes through my mind. He could break my windpipe. Do actual damage that would take far longer to heal than bruising. I straighten my spine when he doesn’t answer.

“If that’s why you’re here, get on with it then,” I say.

If I could be killed, the look he gives me would certainly do it. “Let me be clear,” the man says, leaning down until his nose is so close to mine, I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheeks. His body heat wraps around me, but even so, I shiver. “I have no sympathy for murderers, but unless I am ordered to hurt you, I won’t. My restraint, however, ends if you try to harm me or anyone else. Do you understand?” He doesn't break eye contact as he stands back upright, and I let out a shuddering breath.

“Unless you’re ordered to…” I say, not backing down from his stare, even though confusion swirls in my chest. “Who would order you to? Who are you?”

He looks me dead in the eye. “Brennen.” It’s nothing more than a word—a name, but somehow, it feels like a threat. My heart constricts as he continues. “I was sent by the Fates.”

“The Fates— What?” I stutter, shock overriding my anger. The Fates have never sent anyone after me, so why now?

Nausea churns in my stomach, and my throat burns, because if they’ve decided to kill me now, I won’t finish collecting the objects for my spell, and any chance at redemption will be snatched away in a breath. And though entering the After is my deepest wish, I do not want to go at their hands.

“But… Why?” I ask, breathless.