Page 18 of Wench

Marian flinches, but only for an instant. ‘Then you are no better than the very mortal men you detest, who chain what they cannot control.’

His smile sharpens as he steps closer. His presence is so near, she can see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. Her body feels caged, her lungs straining against the heat radiating from him. His eyes gleam, gold threading brighter through the green. He circles her slowly and Marian tracks his every move.

His gaze dips deliberately to her throat, where her heartbeat flutters beneath the skin. For a long moment, he says nothing. His stare lingers, steady and unflinching, until she feels as though he has peeled her apart and sifted through every raw piece of her. Then, slowly, he leans close enough that his breath grazes her cheek.

‘Clever,’ he murmurs, his voice low and smooth. ‘But cleverness can only carry you so far.’ His mouth tilts, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. ‘In the end, even the sharpest teeth cannot save a creature caught in a snare, little fox.’

Marian’s nickname belonged to her mother alone; it should never fall from a filthy fae tongue. The sound of it sinks into her like a hook, intimate and cutting all at once. She hates him, hates that he can name her with such casual precision, as though she were already his to hunt.

The shadow of his antlers stretches over her, his presence filling every corner until there is no space left for her own air. Marian locks her jaw, refusing to move, refusing to give him the satisfaction of even a step backward.

‘I will not shrink from you,’ she grits out.

‘Good,’ he murmurs. ‘Fear makes for dull company.’

The silence between them stretches until the door creaks open behind him. Lantern light splits the shadows like a blade.

‘They’re ready for you,’ Allen’s voice cuts through, bright and irreverent, the lilt of it snapping the spell.

Her captor does not turn at once. His gaze rests on Marian a heartbeat longer before he finally straightens to his full height. When he does pivot toward the door, the motion is languid and unhurried; a predator conceding the moment only because it chooses to.

Marian drags a deep breath into her lungs, sharp and shaky, her pulse still thrumming hard against her throat. The air feels thinner now, less suffocating, but her body remembers the press of his shadow, the weight of his words.

Allen leans one shoulder against the frame, lute strap slung casually across his chest, dark brows lifted. His eyes flick between them as the other fae passes, curiosity sparking with questions left unsaid.

‘Well,’ Allen drawls, his grin slanting, wicked, ‘looks like you’ve made an impression. Not many go toe-to-toe with our fearless leader and come out unscathed.’

The reveal drops a stone in her gut.

‘That’s Rob—’ she starts, mouth falling agape as she chokes on the rest of his name. Marian had thought the fae was merely some brute sent to torment her. She trails behind the antler-crowned figure as he slips through the doorway, her gaze never leaving the back of his head.

Lox.

The Lord of Elswyth, decider of her fate. And she has already bared her teeth at him.

ChapterSix

Marian had braced herself for cold grandeur, something like her father’s halls, but this place breathes. Roots arch up from the floor and curve down from the ceiling, thick as pillars, ribbed and ridged.

The table at the centre is not carved but grown: a massive ring of root, spiralled and polished until it gleams. Its surface is marked with whorls and grooves that map the entirety of Sherwood better than any human chart.

Eight fae are already seated around the table, each as different from the next as summer is from winter. Their gazes lift when Marian enters, and the weight of them pins her in place.

She swallows hard, her palms damp against her borrowed skirt.

Lox takes his place in the empty seat. He does not look at Marian as he sits, but she feels him all the same.

‘The question before us,’ he announces, ‘is whether this mortal girl shall be permitted to remain within Elswyth until the king makes good on his promise of clemency, or whether she is to be cast out and left to the fate her kind have earned. Let us begin.’

The first to speak is a woman with hair the colour of frost at dawn, braided with sprigs of hawthorn. Her ears taper long and thin, tipped with silver cuffs that glint when she moves.

‘I am Onóra of Greendale. Our village tends to the glades where the deer calve and the rivers split. We have little patience for human mouths, let alone human spies.’ Her pale eyes rake over Marian like knives.

Beside her sits a broad-shouldered male whose skin is bark-brown. Moss sprouts at his temples, and when he shifts, flakes of lichen dust the table. ‘Cern of Hollowhold,’ he rumbles. ‘We keep the deep woods where mortals fear to tread. I have seen what their axes do and would sooner feed her to the soil than risk her kind finding us.’

A younger figure leans forward then, wiry, quick-eyed, hair a tumble of copper curls bound in a leather cord. His smile reveals teeth slightly too pointed. ‘Rían of Willowbend,’ he says with a bow. ‘We keep the bridges and the river crossings. Mortals cross them whether we will it or not. Better to know their faces than their blades, I say.’

Marian swallows her fear, collecting the names and details they give her, like a miser hoards gold.