Page 16

The Archer obviously wants me to follow the ribbons, as there is another one a few feet from the first.

Fine, I’ll play your little game.

I follow the ribbons for a few minutes, eventually coming to a bank where a sprawling lake sparkles under the sun. I gasp as I take it in, struck by its familiarity. The view is identical to the lake behind my house in Stormwood.

In fact, I’m certain it’s the same lake…

I slip my clothes off and tiptoe to the lake shore. I’m completely naked as I drift into the cool waters. Tension crackles in the air around me, and my nipples, now bare to the elements, pucker out. I wrap my arms around myself.

Ignoring the sensation of his eyes on me, I submerge myself and let go. For a moment, I pretend I am free and alone, swimming along the shores of my memories. Not letting anything ruin this moment, as I’ve never appreciated water as much as I do right now. My skin and muscles are throbbing, and the water provides instant relief, jolting my nervous system to life.

I don’t stay long, just enough to clean myself, and I find a sandy spot where I can stretch my legs out and let the warm sun dry me, cleaning out my clothes so they can dry out too, and I settle into the sun.

I wake up and the sun has moved across the sky, and I linger before putting my clothes back on, taking my time. Once I’m dressed, I start toward the path and freeze, slowly shifting in a full circle. I have no idea where the path is. It’s all just rocks, trees, and brush and a heavy light as it bounces off the water.

No ribbon in sight.

My stomach does backflips, and I pace up and down the banks searching for any sign of it. Panic builds deep in my core when I can’t find the ribbon anywhere.

A shadowy figure emerges from the trees, motionless as if he had been there all along. We stare at each other for a few seconds as I get a good view of him in the light. He tilts his head and waves the ribbon—dangling it like a carrot.

The Archer, whoever he is, is just over six feet tall. He’s lean, and from this angle, he doesn’t look that old, though I’d already gathered that from our first meeting. His long torso is clad in a black shirt, and his black pants are tucked into army boots. A black bandana covers the lower half of his face. His body forged for violence.

His mere presence overwhelms my senses.

Every nerve is on fire as we watch each other, then anger surges, bursting my insides. My breathing is shallow, and I’m acutely aware of his eyes as they draw down to my breasts, then back to meet mine. I lift my chin away from him and try not to breathe so rapidly.

I step away from him, and he mirrors my movement, taking slow, steady steps toward me until he’s over top of me, and I find myself staring up at him. All lean muscle and a woodsy scent. His dark hair is a stark contrast against the color of his eyes.

“Give me your hand, Layla,” he demands, reaching his hand out to mine. I hesitate for a moment given all he’s done to me, but I give in to him, reaching out and placing my hand into his, and he takes a gentle hold on my entire arm. I hiss at the pain as it radiates up my neck.

His hand grips my hip. “Loosen your shoulder,” he demands.

Instead, I pull away, jerking in the opposite direction, only for my knees to buckle from the pain. I cry out in agony and collapse forward. He catches me, his hand wrapping around my waist. The sudden contact and the overwhelming pain make me whimper.

His hands are surprisingly gentle as he moves my body to the ground. My head hits the scratchy forest floor, and dust fills my eyes. Two black boots move to either side of my head as he stands over me like a predator.

“Put your arm out to the side.”

“Fuck you,” I seethe and turn my head to the side.

“Do you want me to fix your arm or not?”

I make eye contact, and he still hides behind his mask like a coward. “You’re the one who did this to me.” He raises his eyebrows and waits for my response. “Fine,” I mutter.

He hovers over me, grabs my arm, cupping it gently, and starts to pull. “This is going to hurt,” he warns.

He pulls gently until an audible pop hits my shoulder and a searing pain shoots from my arm up to my neck and down my spine. I scream and twist on the ground, gasping for air, until after a few seconds, instant relief washes over my shoulder.

I meet his gaze and try to catch my breath as he brushes his hand down my arm, almost tenderly, then grabs my hand and massages my wrist. He’s laser-focused as he interlaces his fingers with mine, and he squeezes, pulling and releasing any lingering tension, and the pain quietly dissipates.

He runs his fingers over my lips and wipes a tear before moving his hand to my neck. I’m acutely aware of how close he is to me, and how good he smells, and how my body responds to him. “Get off me,” I snap.

He remains still. “Is your arm better or not?” I clench my jaw and turn my head away, refusing to answer. He rises and steps on my fingers, pressing down hard enough to remind me of the agony I’m in. He asks a second time. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” I whimper as he eases off the pressure. “Much better.”

He crouches, holding my gaze. “Hold on to that feeling whenever it gets hard, wildling, because you’ll need it to ease your pain. It will only get worse before it gets better.”