Page 61 of Wench

Marian’s heart trips.

They were waiting for her.

Aengus chuckles, the sound dry as old parchment. ‘No matter. The Sheriff will carve both the Hallomere pride and the forest’s wild out of you, one night at a time, until you’re docile as a lamb.’

A flicker of fury cuts through her panic. ‘And if I refuse?’

Aengus’s smile tightens at its corners. ‘Return to Nottingham like a good daughter and I’ll make the end quick for them. Or I can bring you back battered and bruised . . .’ His eyes glitter at Lox and Will. ‘And drag them behind the carriage, before I let the pyre do the rest.’

Marian’s mouth goes dry. The choice spreads open in front of her like an abyss: return to a father who trades her and a husband who wants to breed her like livestock; or stay among wild things who have shown her the shape of a new life filled with potential and promise.

The creature in the iron cage slams itself against the bars again, with a roar like splitting metal tearing the air apart. Marian flinches, but not as much as the soldiers, who shoot wary glances at the monster they’ve dared cage.

Marian channels its fury, understanding the sentiment. ‘No,’ she seethes.

The vein in Aengus’s forehead pulses. ‘Pride is dangerous in a woman.’ He snaps and gestures to the soldiers. ‘Take her.’

One of them lunges to seize her. He is a thick-shouldered man with cropped hair, hands swift and hungry as they latch onto her arm.

Marian’s body moves on instinct, before the thought of consequence has fully assembled. Years of being taught to make herself small melt away at his touch. Her feet plant with intent as she lowers her centre and spins. Her wrist slides out of his grip and her fist snaps forward into the hollow beneath his jaw. She doesn’t give him a moment to reorient himself. While he clutches at his throat, she snatches a fist-sized stone off the ground and swings at the side of his knee. The blow lands with a sickening crunch. His legs buckle, and she brings the rock down across his temple until his body goes slack.

The air thrums around her.

Marian stumbles forward, hands scraped, breath ragged. Her eye catches on Lox’s bow, lying half in shadow. She dives for it. The moment her fingers close around it, something slots into place – an echo in her bones that sends a zip of adrenaline through her. She snatches an arrow off the ground and nocks it with shaking fingers just as the other remaining guard levels his weapon.

He lifts his crossbow, aiming not at her, but at the net – at them.

‘Drop it,’ the man snarls. ‘Or I’ll slaughter them both.’

Marian’s heart clenches as her eyes find Lox. Burns streak his temple, his shoulder is twisted in agony and, for a heartbeat that feels impossibly long, the forest holds its breath with them.

‘Remember your truths,’ he rasps, calling back to his words on the night she recovered in his room. ‘You are your own.’

Will, still straining beneath the searing weight of the net and Lox, turns their head enough to catch Marian’s eyes.

‘If you’re going to do something,’ they bite out, ‘you damn well better finish it.’

And there it is – another choice.

She could go with Aengus and let these men finish what her father started. She could return to the tidy box of a life carved out for her by men who loved only what they could own. Her name would be swallowed by Hallomere’s ledgers, her body cast to the mould of a future she never wanted.

Or she could stay.

She could choose the bloodied and blistered. She could choose freedom. Not the kind they sell in sermons, but one forged in fight and fury and fire.

‘Last chance, girl,’ the soldier sneers, dragging her from her thoughts. ‘Drop it.’

Marian draws the bowstring taut, and as she does, something stirs in the pit of her stomach. It rushes down her arms and pools at her fingertips as if solidifying her decision with action.

No longer her father’s daughter, nor the sheriff’s promised bride. Not a tool or a token or a sacrifice carved from porcelain obedience.

She is a weapon of her own making.

A slow breath leaves her as something older than fear and louder than shame rouses from its long slumber within her.

And then she lets go.

The arrow finds its mark with brutal perfection, embedding itself in the crossbowman’s hand just before he shoots. He screams, the bolt and bow skittering wild into the dirt.