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I splay my bound palms in surrender. “I’m at your mercy. You’re in charge. I’m just the helpless victim going along for the ride.”

“Why do you always joke?” Esme jerks at my wrists to propel me forward, but I resist. “Even now. When you should be terrified or furious or⁠—”

Bending forward until her heat warms my lips, I drop the act and let out the real me. The one who’s not trying to blend in, soothe feelings, or pretend to care. The one who loves watching other people’s fear and discomfort.

“The mask helps hide the monster underneath.” My voice rumbles in that golem-like way that I’ve always hated. Low, flat, and lifeless. “So I can mingle among the humans between hunts.”

Her breathing hitches audibly, then resumes with a pant.

I inhale deeply before dragging my tongue over her neck. I can taste her fright through her sweat, a fine aphrodisiac that goes straight to my cock.

A nose bigger than my fist hits my crotch like a battering ram.

I stumble back with a laugh as I relearn how to breathe, struggling to stay upright. Did not see that one coming.

Whatever happens next—interrogation, ransom, getting answers—at least it won’t be dull.

Chapter Twenty

Esme

Agnar, the dire wolf, and I leave the gray fields and dead earth behind and start climbing, with me guiding Agnar since he can’t see. The rolling foothills form a line the Withering doesn’t cross. We take infrequent breaks, where I offer my prisoner water and foraged nuts and berries. I’m thankful for my decision to bind his hands in front of him. That at least allows him enough mobility for him to relieve his bladder without any assistance. On day two, we reach the mountains, which are alive in ways the plains have never been.

Up here, the trees sprout thick, their green leaves almost too bright after days of gray. Songbirds fill the canopy with music I almost forgot existed. A family of moon deer peers at us from a wildflower-laden meadow, their silver antlers glinting in the afternoon light.

This is Meridia as it should be. As it was before the Withering spread its corruption through the kingdom. When I turn around, I can see the patchwork quilt of the Withering below us, like jagged scars torn into the countryside. My chest aches at the contrast, sorrow penetrating my core. I miss the country I knew, bucolic and hopeful and welcoming of strangers. I hope things can return to that and we can stop the Withering before it’s too late.

The dire wolf pauses to sniff at a burrow where I can sense a colony of tunnel hares, their magic humming in the earth beneath our feet.

Even after two days of physically guiding Agnar, I still can’t get used to his heat when I lead him around fallen logs, steady him on loose scree, or guide him away from the edge of drop-offs. I’m certain he’s aware of these pratfalls, but he marches toward them regardless, probably to force a reaction because he’s annoying like that.

Each time we brush against each other, Agnar’s chest expands. Sometimes, I think he’s leaning in closer than he needs to and sniffing me. Agnar rarely speaks. Since he can’t see me blush, I don’t either. I’m not sure what I would say. So now, I touch him as little as possible, despite my fingertips tingling with the urge.

I don’t need the distraction. Being in charge, while keeping him safe and figuring out a roundabout path to Veradin’s cave, is already too much for me. The mantle of leadership forced upon me is difficult to carry. My shoulders are tense, my back hurts, and I second-guess every decision.

Worse, I swear Agnar knows this.

That damn smirk of his shows up entirely too often, and his voice stays soft and mockingly submissive when he asks me for directions.

At the same time, these last few days of travel have also been relaxing. This is the last bit of work I have to do before I get back to Veradin. Once I do, I can tell him everything and let him decide how to proceed. Admitting I failed will be far less stressful than trying to form a plan for how to retrieve the Everhand.

“You’re smiling.” Agnar cuts into my thoughts. “I can hear it in your breathing.”

I yank my hand away from his elbow like he’s just burned me. “I wasn’t aware breathing had an expression.”

“It does when you’re paying attention.” He adjusts his stance on the narrow path, perfectly balanced despite his blindfold and bound wrists. The sun gilds his body as if he’s a hero from a folktale, but the vision is a lie. Agnar’s no hero. Heroes don’t slaughter sick alicorns and bandits with glee. “You’ve been tense for days. Shoulders up near your ears, breathing shallow and quick. Just now, you relaxed. Started breathing like a person instead of a cornered rabbit.”

Heat floods my face, and I avert my gaze even though he can’t see, embarrassed that even a blind man can read me. “I am not tense.”

“Right. And I’m not blindfolded and being led through the mountains by a woman who apologizes every time she accidentally brushes against me.” His mouth curves into that infuriating crooked smile, flashing the tips of his canines. I bet I’m not the first person who dreams of slapping that grin right off his face. “Which is roughly every thirty seconds, in case you were wondering.”

I was not wondering. I was trying not to think about it at all so I could pay attention to our route. The path winds through the mountains with many branches and dead ends, and despite my familiarity with the area, I need to concentrate to prevent us from becoming lost.

Agnar’s words stick in my brain, as does his smirk.

Thirty seconds.

Maybe I really should have let the dire wolf eat him, though I’m pretty sure that goes against my Warden training.