Page 4 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

“What?” I finally snap.

He points to my ankle — swollen from the root’s grip — then gestures for me to sit.

“No thanks. I’ll stand.”

A flash of silver in his eyes. He flicks two fingers.

Shadow vines explode from the ground, coiling around my waist. They deposit me gently onto the moss bed.

“What the *fuck*!” I scramble back, heart racing. The vines retreat. He’s already crossing the clearing, pulling a jar from the oak shelves.

I tense as he kneels in front of me. His hands — claws retracted now, I realize — unscrew the lid. The earthy scent of comfrey and witch hazel hits my nose. Salve.

“I can do it myself.”

He dips two fingers into the ointment. Holds them out. Waiting again.

This close, I notice the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Notice how his chest barely moves when he breathes. His stillness isn’t human. It’s the patience of mountains. Of glaciers.

Slowly, I extend my injured leg.

The first touch makes me flinch. His hand engulfs my calf, spreading salve with surprising gentleness. The coldness of him seeps through my skin, dulling the ache. His thumb presses a tender spot, and I bite back a whimper.

He pauses. Looks up.

“Keep going,” I mutter.

But he’s staring at my face now, pupils flaring. The sigils on his neck glow brighter. His free hand rises toward my cheek — hesitates — then brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

My breath hitches.

He inhales sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. A tremor runs through him. The salve jar cracks in his grip.

I freeze. “Did I… do something?”

He stands abruptly, vanishing into the trees faster than I can blink.

---

I wait ten minutes before attempting escape.

The moss bed makes a surprisingly good sled down the eastern slope. I crash through berry bushes, thorns snagging my dress. Run until my lungs scream. Find a stream. Follow it like village lore taught me.

He steps out from behind a birch tree.

I backpedal. “How did you—”

His mouth flattens. Points back toward the clearing.

“No.” I sidestep. “I’m not dying here because Farmer Crayford’s sheep got mange. Move.”

He doesn’t.

I bolt west this time.

The forest bends around me. Branches trip. Roots rise. Twenty minutes later, I emerge… five feet from the stream. The Reaper leans against a tree, arms crossed.

“Stop that!” I shout.