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The strikingly beautiful woman is entirely too distracting.

I frown as I discern the satisfaction in her eyes. I overlooked the fact that she’s a local. She likely knows these woods and the dangers hidden in them.

I stifle an impressed laugh while silently admitting it was smart thinking on her part. Never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake. By not saying a word, she was leading me to my death.

If I were an ordinary man. But I don’t need my wings to get out of this.

A lightning strike of magic surges through me, lending me strength as I lunge at her, ripping my boots clear of the soupy soil.

She flinches but doesn’t run as I wrap my arms around her. I haul us onto firm ground with her crushed to my chest, one arm crossed over her throat, right underneath that defiant chin. What would wilting that defiance require? How far would I have to go? How far am I willing to go? I’ve never had an answer to that. The truth always seems to be as far as it takes.

“I’m assuming you knew about this swamp.” I slide my lips over the shell of her ear. “The quicksand too. What’s next, a nice bog?”

She doesn’t reply, but her pulse speeds up against the forearm I press to her throat.

“Try leading me to someplace you think is safe only for you again,” I drag my nose along her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and the delicate perfume that accompanies it, “and I promise you’ll regret it.”

Her voice shakes, even as her body stays stable and strong. “You don’t need to threaten me. You already have me tied up in the woods.”

“That’s not a threat.” I nip the edge of her earlobe. “It’s a promise.”

I shove her toward the swamp harshly enough that she stumbles. Regaining her balance, she settles with her back to me, the unbent grass beneath her feet a stark contrast to my muddy, torn-up tracks.

Raising her bound hands, she touches the ear I nipped.

She’s not using earth magic, that I would feel, nor is she using water magic to give herself a layer to stand on. I’d see that. So what is she doing?

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

Then she breathes deeply and lifts her chin again without looking at me, unrepentant.

She’s going to be a bigger problem than I initially perceived.

I haul her back to the trail by her elbow, my boots finding purchase on packed earth that doesn’t try to eat me alive. She comes without resistance, which worries me a little. Prisoners like her only concede when they’re plotting.

We skirt the treacherous clearing, and I find another private spot fifty yards up the trail. It’s smaller and less open, but the ground is blessedly firm beneath my tentative boot. Good enough.

Once that’s settled, I drag my silent companion along to gather firewood. As she so perfectly pointed out, I’m not a local and don’t know what type of beasts might inhabit these woods. Not that she would warn me if one were about to bite my head off.

But I do know that most beasts, with the exception of dragons and phoenixes, both of which I’m perfectly fine with, don’t like fire.

“You know,” I snap a branch over my knee, “most women would at least pretend to be upset about being kidnapped. A little crying. Some pleading. Really sells the victim narrative.”

No reaction.

I stack the firewood on her bound arms. She’s got to at least be useful for manual labor. Without a flicker of a response, she holds her arms out and accepts everything I force her to carry. I purposefully find a few branches coated in dirt and rotting leaves to goad her into reacting, but nothing seems to bother her. Or she’s very talented at pretending otherwise. I love a woman who’s difficult to crack.

“You’re committed to this whole stoic routine, aren’t you? I can respect that.” I gather an armload of wood and haul it back toward our makeshift camp. “It makes me wonder what you’re thinking about behind that pretty, blank face.”

She treats me to a disdainful glance before shifting her attention to the woods and trailing behind me.

As much fun as needling her is, I need to start a fire before darkness falls.

Once we’re back at camp, I dump the firewood, then grab the woman’s shoulder and push her down until she sits cross-legged. She leans forward, letting go of the sticks in her arms.

After that, she waits, observing me as I arrange the kindling into a careful triangle. I try and fail to read behind her mask.

She’s definitely scheming, though.