Cohen lies in my lap, his motionless body covered in blood. I hold fast to him, as if my hands might fuse together the gashes that have opened his torso and torn his face. I rock forward and back. Forward and back.
“No, no, no, no, no!” The space beneath my rib cage is hot and full like it might explode. I cannot lose him, my Cohen.
And yet, I know it’s soon to happen. I hate that I know when death is near. I can feel the thread left of his once-vibrant presence. He’s a drop. A whisper. Cohen’s hazel eyes, dim and no longer able to focus, wander as he coughs. Crimson speckles his pale lips.
“I—I never told you.” I choke on my words. A sob breaks out. “I love you.”
When his eyes close, my grief cuts through the woods. I’d trade my life to save his.
I wake in the dead of the night, skin clammy and cold. In those first moments, the strangest tugging sensation ghosts through me, tiny invisible feet dancing across my back and up my neck. I’m being watched. Pushing up off my front, I move onto my knees and glance around the campsite. To the shadows stained blue in the half moonlight. To the three sleeping guards snoring louder than a sloth of bears.
The same impression hit me in the Evers before I took down the bull elk. Before then, I’d never experienced the sensation. Perhaps the stress of Papa’s death, or hunting Cohen, is affecting my imagination.
Even so, I withdraw slowly from my bedroll and stand while pulling the dagger from my boot, where it’s been hidden since the lashing. Two days ago, Tomas noticed the blade was missing, but he doesn’t know I have it. The rat guard doesn’t want the captain to know he lost the dagger, so he hasn’t spoken a word about it.
Movement flickers in the trees, and then the unmistakable crunch of footsteps sounds.
Not my imagination. I suck in a breath.
Casting a wary glance at the dozing captain, I debate what the man will do if he finds me missing.
The fading footsteps snap my resolve. I shove to my feet, ignoring the slice of ache between my shoulders, and run after the intruder—a tall man, my guess by the glimpse of his shadow.
He’s too far away to distinguish features. Too quick. I’m barely able to follow his silhouette. In an instant, he darts around another tree, leading us farther from camp. Doing everything possible to keep him in my sights, I push my legs faster, pump my arms harder, but the soreness in my back steals most of the needed grace to dodge trees and shrubs.
And then, quite suddenly, I cannot find him.
My legs slow to a jog. Did he change direction?
A familiar sound—a whir—splices the air just before an arrow sinks into the trunk beside me. I dive behind the closest boulder. Forget the healing lashes on my back; a war drum pounds beneath my ribs.
I lack strength and a bow. I shouldn’t have followed him. Not alone. How foolish of me.
Some time passes before I’m daring enough to peek around the rock. Except he’s gone now.
I kick the sandstone, cursing under my breath, and whip around to find the arrow. It’s buried a quarter shaft deep into the wood—impressive for an archer. A wiggling action frees the arrow. The moonlight filtering through the branches provides enough ambient glow to take in the weapon’s details. To read the word carved into the metal tip: Dove.
My fingers rattle as I run my hand from fletching to tip, knowing he’s touched the arrow the same way just moments before.
I spin, searching the woods wildly for him, even though he’s long gone.
The scratched word, Cohen’s nickname for me, is rough beneath the pad of my thumb.
He missed intentionally.
Nothing makes sense. Not this arrow. Not his tracks.
The last time I saw Cohen was after a mountain cat attacked us in the woods, which caused me to be bedridden for a week and Cohen permanently scarred.
I ran a hand over my hair—a sheet of silver under the stars and moonlight—left down how Cohen liked it. Movement across the pasture caught my eye. It took squinting to make out Cohen’s form. When he’d visited earlier, he said he’d come again. My heart leaped at the sight.
Nerves rattled inside as I slipped into the shadows to meet him. After the accident, I vowed I wouldn’t wait to tell him of my feelings. Still I worried he didn’t feel the same.
The angry line under his left eye socked me with guilt. “Cohen, I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your—” He started to argue but stopped when my fingers twined with his.
“It kills me that you’re hurt. I—I care about you . . .”
“I care about you too.” Heat from his skin spread through mine.
I summoned the courage to finally admit my feelings. “I—I meant as more than just friends. I have feelings for you. I want to be with you, and I don’t ever want to lose you.”
His eyes widened, and dark sable swallowed the usual gold flecks.
“Britt” floated out. His head dipped, and he pressed his lips to my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. Soft and sweet. He asked me to wait for him. That he’d return the next morning.
Though confused, I agreed. For Cohen, I’d do anything. Then he whistled for Siron and left.
He didn’t come back like he said he would.
Not the next day. Not the following fall to apprentice. Not even when Papa died.
I stare deep into the darkness. We need each other, Leif said the other day, but he was wrong, because I don’t need any part of this.
I hate the way Cohen makes a mess of my thoughts. Hate that I’m here in these woods, hunting him for murder. Hate the doubts tangling my mind because they’re meaningless next to the truth in Lord Jamis’s words.