Page 17 of Wench

Marian is ushered into a chamber lit by lanterns set in niches, and the door shuts behind her with a gentle click.

She wrings her hands, fingers knotting the hem of her borrowed tunic, as her pulse ticks upward. Roots coil down the walls; the humid air clings to her lungs, honey-sweet yet stifling. Shadows gather in the corners where the lanterns cannot reach, swelling in rhythm with her unease.

Marian paces the length of the room, boots scuffing against the dirt floor. ‘Tricks,’ she mumbles under her breath. ‘Always tricks. They heal with one hand and steal with the other. Kind faces, clever words, anything to lure you deeper, and I’m the fool who walked right into their snare.’ Her voice cracks, low, brittle. ‘I’ve no choice but to play along. I’ll smile, I’ll bow, I’ll play the dutiful captive until I can crawl free.’ She presses her palms together, forcing them still, but the weight of waiting is unbearable.

‘Talking to yourself already?’

A voice cuts through the chamber. Deep, unhurried, touched with an edge of amusement that feels closer to mockery.

Marian jolts, her heart leaping into her throat as she spins to find the chamber still empty. Her pulse ricochets against her ribs. ‘Who’s there?’ she demands, but her voice isn’t steady.

The shadows around the room thicken, weaving tighter as though they conspire to hide him.

‘Who’s there?’ Marian repeats. Her stomach knots, but she lifts her chin, forcing a glare into the murk.

A low chuckle vibrates through the chamber. ‘Names are power, mortal,’ the voice replies, velvety and edged. ‘I’m not one to offer mine so freely; best way to keep from waking tomorrow bound to someone else’s will.’

Marian’s fists clench at her sides. ‘Then keep your name. I don’t want it,’ she snaps, her voice too quick, too thin, betraying the tremor beneath. ‘What are you, the Elders’ guard dog?’

The laughter comes again, closer now.

‘Sharp tongue. Careful, or someone might cut it out. Tell me, is it courage or desperation that makes you speak so boldly?’

‘If you mean to toy with me, know I will not break easily.’

‘I expected simpering. Tears. Maybe a prayer to whatever god mortals cling to. But defiance? That’s almost interesting.’ Another chuckle, softer this time, threaded with dark intrigue.

Her skin prickles, heat rising unwanted in her cheeks. ‘I don’t exist to interest you.’

‘How quaint. A rabbit declaring itself a wolf.’

The air between them tightens, humming with something sharp and dangerous.

‘I didn’t take the fae for cowards,’ she grits out, courage and fury stacking her spine. ‘Hiding in the shadows, taunting a woman trapped in your walls. You’d sooner talk me into fear than dare face me.’

Silence follows, long enough that her bravado curdles into dread.

The shadows peel back at last. Her tormentor steps into the light, and Marian’s breath snags hard in her chest.

He is ruinous.

There’s no other word for him. Not beautiful, not fair, not even divine – though he is all of those things. He has the kind of face that razes kingdoms, turns proud girls foolish and makes men break oaths.

He fills the space like a storm breaking, tall and broad-shouldered, his frame honed by the wild. Black hair falls loose to his shoulders, tousled and shining, as if it was combed by the wind and not hands. His skin gleams like burnished bronze. The curve of his mouth is merciless – too beautiful for kindness, too soft for cruelty. It’s surrounded by a jaw that’s shadowed with hair. But the most stunning feature juts from his temples. Antlers, dark as polished oak, jut outward in jagged arcs, their wild symmetry more beast than man, yet too arresting to look away from.

And then there are his eyes.

They’re green, like those of all other fae, but not the shade of grass or leaf. They are the shade of deep groves untouched by the sun. The same gold Marian saw in Little John’s and Allen’s eyes pulses in his, but it’s richer, like melted coin. Those eyes drag up the length of her and settle on her face.

Marian’s stomach flips, heat flushing unbidden up her neck. Her pulse flutters wild as though her body mistakes him for something to be desired rather than feared. The realization chills her. She tells herself it’s the lingering effect of their healing magic. Some trick or glamour meant to soften her resolve. Because no creature so dangerous, so powerful, could make her pulse stumble with anything but terror.

She forces her breath to steady. ‘You enjoy cornering women in locked rooms?’

‘If you feel cornered, that is because you know you don’t belong here.’

Her chin snaps higher, even as her pulse thunders. ‘It was your kind who dragged me here. If I foul your air, then open the door and let me go.’

His laugh is low, rich, sliding along the chamber walls like oil down glass. ‘You wouldn’t make it three steps before the wood ate you whole. You are alive because I allow it.’