He cuts me off with a sharp look, the scowl deepening. “Stop. Talking,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Best for you, if you do.”
I clench my teeth, more annoyed than scared now. “You’re not exactly filling me with confidence that I’m safe, you know.”
“That’s not my job,” he replies, his tone dry and clipped.
“Then what is your job?” I immediately snap back, trying to trick him into giving me something, anything.
Instead, he steps closer, and I realise too late that I’ve backed myself into a tree. He towers over me. Fuck, he’s tall. He makes the tree at my back look like a twig. “Doesn’t matter. You just need to know that I’ll keep you safe,” he repeats, his voice a little softer this time, though still no less commanding. “This is going to go easier on you if you trust me. Can you do that? Because just because I won’t hurt you doesn’t mean I won’t restrain you if I have to.”
Trust him? The idea is laughable, but there’s something in his tone, a thread of sincerity buried beneath the gruffness, that makes me pause. But how can I trust him when I don’t even know how I ended up in the middle of nowhere with him on a horse? Why can’t I remember anything? I reach up instinctively to feel for a lump on my head, fumbling around over my matted hair for any sign of concussion. He watches me with a raised eyebrow.
“What? I’m feeling for a lump! Just trying to see if you thumped me over the head with that ham fist of yours so you could drag me back to your backwater hovel tobe your wife!”
He blinks and lifts his gloved hand to his forehead, rubbing at his temple, as ifhehas a reason to be frustrated. He’s not the one being kidnapped. He sighs and then reaches out as if to grab me again.
I yank my hand back, searching his eyes for some sign of what he’s thinking, but they remain as unreadable as ever. Then, before either of us can say another word, I do the only thing that makes sense—I bolt.
Again.
The underbrush tears at my clothes, branches whipping at my face, but I don’t care. I just need to get away.
Surprisingly, I get farther than I had expected to. Probably because he didn’t expect me to do something so blatantly obvious. And stupid. Twice. Maybe ten or twenty strides into my escape, he’s caught up with me, his hand gripping the back of my clothes again.
“Holy gods, woman, you’re not making this easy,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
“That’s not my job,” I retort, echoing his words.
He doesn’t let go. Instead, he drags me back to his horse, and with just his one hand, lifts me effortlessly and dumps me back on the horse. Then, as if out of nowhere, a long strand of vines appears in his hands, and he wraps it, firmly but not painfully, around my wrists.
I struggle. Hard. Cursing him and about ten generations of his ancestors and their pets as I try to break free.
“Enough,” he says, his voice brooking no argument, sliding in behind me in one smooth movement.
I want to argue, to scream, to do anything but comply, but the exhaustion is catching up to me again, and the prospect of some rest suddenly sounds delicious. My hands fight against the vines for a little while longer, just to make a point, then they drop.
“Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long journey,” he says, his voice deep and dark against the hair on my neck. Arms come back around me to hold me in place, and I’m engulfed by the scent of cloves and oakmoss. Earthy and strong.
“Just in case I haven’t made this clear by how incredibly compliant I’ve been, you’re taking me against my will,” I hiss, the last sliver of defiance slipping out of my body and into my voice.
“Duly noted,” he replies, and maybe it’s my fatigue, but I swear there’s a hint of dry amusement in his tone, though it’s quickly masked by his usual gruffness.
With that, he nudges the horse forward, and we begin to move. The rocking motion starts again, lulling me back into the dark haze of exhaustion. As the forest blurs around me, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve gotten myself into—and why, despite everything, a small part of me wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s telling the truth.
That I am safe.
THREE
Eirabella
After a few hoursof drifting in and out of a fitful sleep, I finally manage to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time. We’re deep in the woods now, the branches overhead forming a canopy so thick that only the faintest slivers of dusk peek through. It’s not quite night, but the shadows are long and deep, casting everything in shades of grey.
I shift slightly, pushing back on the saddle, wincing as the movement sends a dull ache through my limbs. Sir Scary huffs at my movement, seemingly still grumpy, and still behind me. His presence is a constant weight pressing down on me even though we’re barely directly touching. I don’t need to look back to know he’s watching everything, every twitch of my muscles, every flicker of my gaze, waiting for my next attempt to escape. I feel his eyes on me like a fine mist over my skin.
“So,” I begin, testing my voice. It’s still rough but a littlesteadier than before. “Are you planning to tell me where we’re headed, or am I to remain in the dark until we arrive?”
“Somewhere safe,” he replies, his tone flat as ever.
Of course. How could I forget? He’s whisking me off to the magical land of Safe, where everyone and everything is fine and nothing ever goes awry.
