Page 47 of Wench

Marian’s hands tighten in the bedsheets, fingers fisting around the coarse weave until her knuckles ache. When she closes her eyes, all she sees is the dull shimmer of ore within the valley, the veins of her father’s ambition gleaming. She can’t help but think that maybe she deserved what almost happened to her.

After all, what’s a single scar to weigh against what she’s helped carve into the bones of this land? How many trees died to feed Hallomere greed? How many children, fae or otherwise, will never take a breath beneath Sherwood’s canopy again because she sketched weapons and called it a daughter’s duty?

A sick heat blooms in her chest, part shame, part fury. She shouldn’t feel this way. She shouldn’t feel anything at all. Not about Lox. Not about the way his voice goes rough and hard when he’s angry. Not about the way he looked at her when he pulled her off the forest floor, blood-streaked and shaking. Or how he held her as if she were something worth saving.

But she does.

Soft footfalls pad over the wooden floorboards toward her and she squeezes her eyes tighter.

‘You can stop pretending now,’ Lox murmurs, voice coming from far too close for him to be anything but beside her again. ‘I know you’re awake.’

Her heart thuds as her eyes flutter open in time to see him crouch beside the bed, elbows resting lightly on his knees, gaze fixed on her with that unreadable stillness he wears like armour.

‘How?’ she croaks, the word sandpaper in her throat.

Lox’s mouth tugs at the corner, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Fae senses. Your breathing changed the moment Will spoke. As did your heartbeat, which is always a little louder when you’re lying.’ The intensity of his gaze doesn’t waver. ‘And when you moved against the sheets, you bit the inside of your cheek. I could smell the blood.’

Marian’s face is aflame with humiliation.

He reaches for the low table at her bedside and lifts a small clay cup, its rim glossy with moisture. ‘Here, drink this.’ She stares at the offering, suspicion blooming, before he adds, ‘It’s usnea and nettle tea to help stave off infection. No magic, on my honour.’

She moves to grab the cup and winces, pain zipping across her chest like lightning.

Lox is already there. One arm slips behind her shoulders, lifting her with a gentleness that undoes her. The other hand holds the cup steady at her lips. The liquid is warm and bitter, infused with herbs she doesn’t recognize, but she swallows anyway, each sip easing the rasp in her throat. She can’t help but think of her mother’s tonic, of how she swallowed it to keep the wild out, only to now invite it in with little hesitation.

He doesn’t speak, and neither does she. The silence grows thick with something that crackles at the edges. They’re close enough that heat bleeds through the fabric where his arm curls behind her back. His pulse beats steady where her temple brushes against his collarbone. She doesn’t mean to lean into it, but the contact is grounding.

Once the cup is drained, Lox sets it aside but doesn’t let go.

‘I don’t understand,’ Marian whispers, reaching up to touch the tender spot above her brow where her skull hit the rock. ‘When I first arrived in Elswyth, Allen said they healed me. Why not this time?’

‘That was before I knew how much you feared our magic,’ he says slowly, unwilling to meet her eyes now. ‘Considering you were willing to starve yourself to avoid eating anything that could have been tainted with it, I didn’t want you to wake up and fear that we’d warped your body in some way you didn’t have a say in.’ He drags a hand through his hair, jaw flexing. ‘So this time . . . I waited. I didn’t want to take that choice from you.’

Marian blinks, stunned silent. Of all the answers she expected – irritation, disdain, even strategic caution – this is not it.

‘I had the healers use older methods,’ Lox continues, eyes fixed on the rim of the now-empty cup. ‘Poultices. Root salves. Binding wraps. They’re slower, and you’ll likely have a scar, but they’re yours.’

Marian blinks down at herself. The tunic is loose and unfamiliar, but beneath the neckline she sees pale linen wrapped tight around her chest, the edges stained with dried green paste that smells of crushed leaves and cedar.

Her hand settles lightly on the bandage between her breasts. The flesh throbs, tender and real. He didn’t heal her because he didn’t want to betray her trust.

Remorse cracks open inside her.

‘The bandages will need changing a few times a day,’ Lox adds, ‘for at least a week; the wound was deeper than I initially thought. What those men did . . .’ His voice trails off, the tone sharp with fury.

She turns her head to look at him and places one of her hands on top of his at the edge of the bed. ‘Thank you, Robin,’ she whispers, throat tight. The sound of his real name on her tongue tastes better than any delicacy that’s blessed her tastebuds.

Lox stills beneath her touch.

She doesn’t know what possessed her to say the name he never uses instead of the one he’s adopted, but once it’s out there, it hums in the air between them like a plucked string.

Lox gives her hand a gentle squeeze before rising. He paces a few steps toward the hearth and turns. There’s a tightness in his eyes now, a heat that simmers just beneath the surface.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she chokes out. ‘I shouldn’t have struck you. I?—’

‘Stop.’

Lox stands with his back half-turned to her, one hand braced against the mantle as though the stone might steady him. Firelight catches the ink along his forearm, vines and thorns shifting with the flex of muscle. His antlers tilt forward, shadowing his face.