Page 90 of Wench

The Sheriff growls, muffled against the roots, but Lox only tilts his head, golden eyes blazing. ‘When you think of today, remember that a baron’s daughter and a fae mongrel are the only reason you’re still breathing.’ He takes a step back. ‘But know this: if you lift a hand toward me or mine again, I will make sure the forest swallows you so clean that not even your shadow will find its way back. Sherwood keeps a ledger, and the roots remember every debt.’

With the ruthless simplicity of a verdict, Lox’s boot snaps forward, brutal and clean. The leather meets the Sheriff’s cheekbone with a crack. His eyes roll back until only the whites can be seen. Silence descends upon the field, broken only by the hiss of Marian’s thin, ragged breaths.

Her knees finally give way.

Marian’s vision rims in black. The world banks and drops out from under her like a trapdoor. Her palm falls from her waist and fresh warmth leaks down her front, sticky and hot. She hits the grass hard, breath bursting, dress blooming red.

‘Marian!’ Lox drops beside her with athud. Every trace of wrath in his face is replaced by terror within the space of a blink. His hands hover at first, as if touching her might shatter Marian completely. When he finally presses against her wound in an attempt to staunch the tide, she screams.

A terrified whimper slips out of him. He’s not the Verdant Guardian now, nor the unshakable force of Sherwood, but a man unravelling. ‘No, no, no. Stay with me, little fox.’ Liquid seeps between his fingers as he compresses harder.

‘I meant what I said.’ Marian tries to smile but it turns into a grimace. ‘I’ll find you in this lifetime o-o-or the next.’ She coughs, blood spurting from her lips. It splatters on his face but he doesn’t even flinch.

Her world is nothing but the bite of pain and the smell of freshly turned soil.

‘Look at me!’ Lox cups her face, thumbs streaking mud over her cheeks as if he could paint the colour back into them. ‘You do not leave me to finish this alone.’ He presses his forehead to hers, breath shaking. ‘I choose you, Marian Hallomere. I choose you now and each morning after. Don’t you dare go somewhere I can’t follow!’

A wet sound escapes her, half-gasp, half-groan. ‘Robin—’ Her body shudders, her eyelids fluttering. ‘Promise you won’t let them seal my body in stone.’ Her hand rests against his chest, his heart thudding beneath her fingers. ‘Bury me here so I can rise wild through your ribs.’

‘No.’ The denial is a snarl, feral in his throat. ‘This is not how this ends!’ His eyes wrinkle at the edges of the thought. ‘Marian, I need you to look at me.’

Her gaze drags toward him, foggy with pain, and she’s surprise when she sees hope flickering behind his stare.

‘I know how you feel about magic,’ he whimpers. ‘And I swore I would never use it on you without your leave. But Marian . . . I can’t save you without it. Will you let me try?’

She squints. Magic. The thought chills her blood faster than the wound spilling it.

‘I . . .’ Her voice crackles.

The old stories claw up from memory. Tales of spells that unspool the mind until you don’t know your own name; enchantments that hollow you out and leave only hunger and the shape someone else carved into you. Only days ago, she willingly drank fae wine, but this is different.

She thinks about the Severing, about how she felt an almost literal thread being cut from within. Her fingers clutch at his wrist, slick with her own blood. ‘What if I lose myself?’ she rasps.

Lox’s gaze sears into hers, green-gold and fierce as fire caught in leaves. ‘You won’t. I swear it on my antlers, on my oath to Sherwood.’ His hand tightens, not crushing but anchoring, grounding her to him. ‘I will stitch you to this world even if it tears my soul in half.’

Her chest heaves. She wants to believe him, to trust that he could hold her together when she feels herself spilling apart at the seams. ‘But if it changes me?—’

‘Then let it change me too,’ he cuts in, fierce as wildfire. ‘If you burn, I will burn with you. If you rise, I will rise beside you. If your soul splinters, mine will catch the shards. That is my bond. That is my vow. You do not walk this path alone.’

Her lungs fight for air, but Lox’s vow cuts through her panic. The fear digging claws into her ribs loosens – not because she believes in safety, but because she believes in him.

The last of her resistance folds. Her chin dips in a frail nod that costs more than any oath she’s ever made. He exhales and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

‘Thank you,’ he whispers.

He doesn’t waste a moment. His palm, still slick with her blood, picks up a fistful of damp soil and flattens it against her belly, spreading it across her wounds like medicine.

A wretched wet cry tumbles out of her as he presses deeper. The earth hisses under his hand, magic surging through her body hot and fast. Beneath her, the roots stir as though they, too, wish to pour their strength into her body. Golden light ripples down Lox’s arms, funnels into the wound, and threads through the soil to weave a crude seal. For a heartbeat, Marian’s bleeding slows.

Then the soil sours black, heat and iron pushing back, and the blood wells anew.

‘No!’ His voice is jagged. He doubles the pressure, chanting low in the old tongue until his teeth rattle. The forest answers, a hum in the marrow of the hill. But each surge only staunches the pour for a breath, before the wound gapes again, unrelenting. The light in his eyes stutters and dies, leaving only heat and the unbearable press of his hands trying to hold her life inside her.

Lox’s roar shreds the morning silence. ‘It’s t-t-too deep,’ he admits, horror dawning in the hollow of his chest. ‘It’s too deep,’ he repeats, ‘I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to save you.’

Marian blinks slowly, lashes sticky with blood. Her lips tremble, but she forces them into a curve, fragile and defiant. ‘Don’t be . . . so angry,’ she whispers, voice thinner than thread. ‘I’d rather . . . end in your arms than . . . live a hundred years never knowing the feel of them.’

The words lance through him, sharper than any blade. Lox bows his head, jaw clenched so tight it could splinter. His golden eyes brim with the kind of grief that makes mountains crack. He gathers her hand against his chest as if pressing it there could make her pulse his own.