Page 22 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

I freeze. My skin prickles, and all my awareness focuses on that touch. I don’t think—No, I know he’s never touched me before. Not even a sneaking brush of our fingers when he handed me a drink. My heart is beating so fast I might choke.

“No matter what, I will do everything within my power to return you both, and Ophelia, back to your realm,” he says. I can’t quite make it out, but I think his eyes are on mine. “I swear it.”

Grant sucks in a breath, and the quiet sounds of the forest come rushing back into my ears. That’s important. That he swore it—it’s important.

“I know you will,” I say. “But we need a backup plan. God, we should have—We need to know what to expect at court and who might be there, and—”

Lark squeezes my wrist and my mouth snaps shut. I want to hate him. I want to be better than I am, to have the same confidence and self-worth that Ophelia and Felix embody so effortlessly.

I don’t want him to keep holding me, to slide his hand down and wrap our fingers together and give me some comfort as we journey through these dense, dark woods. I don’t.

When he lets go, I bite my lower lip to keep in the sound that wants to escape my throat. If Lark notices, he doesn’t show it; he starts walking again.

For a second, I can’t catch my breath. Grant moves closer, standing by my side close enough that I can feel his faint warmth. “Come on,” he murmurs. “We’ll plan while he talks to the witch.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Except this night seems to be never-ending. At first, Grant is silent, but I’m twitchy, jumping at every distant sound like fae might rush out of the darkness and attack us, so he starts speaking in an undertone. He rambles on about what he thinks Vlad might be doing right now and what the Hunt have been up to and maybe Sam and Cassian are getting on better and maybe Kieran has joined them and—

I huff a little laugh and shake my head when he says we’ll get back and find Sam wants to add even more mates to his repertoire. We both know that’s not true. Him and Adam and Drew; that’s it for them. But it’s a silly enough conversation to distract me for now.

Lark suddenly stops. Grant snaps his mouth shut and his magic brushes against me as he sends out a curious wave. “What is it?” he whispers, apparently turning up nothing.

“We need to be quiet,” Lark says curtly. “It is doubtful that the witch has allowed any other fae into her territory, but we cannot know that for sure.”

My cheeks heat. Grant huffs. But neither of us says anything as Lark starts walking again.

I don’t want silence. The dark trees are freaking me out and all I can think about now is the fact that we’re not really closer to finding Ophelia than we were a few hours ago.

Grant sidles in my direction. I jump when he slides his hand into mine, squeezing tight. I’m no wolf, despite belonging to a pack, and neither is he, but maybe Quinn’s rubbed off on him a little. I let out a shaky breath. I wish he hadn’t had to be dragged into this, all things considered, but right now it feels better than being alone.

Just when I’m about to seriously consider passing out—it might not be Lark’s fault it’s taken longer than the half day he originally claimed, but I’m uncharitably blaming him for it all the same—Grant squeezes my hand again.

That’s all the warning either of us gets. He darts forward and drags Lark back, out of the range of magic that suddenly flares up before us.

“Fuck,” Grant says.

“Is either of you—” I try to hurry, being careful not to stumble. “Are you both okay?”

“Fine,” Lark says. Grant lets go of him and steps back. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no worries,” Grant says absently. “What was that?”

“The witch’s final wards.”

“I thought she knew we were coming?” I ask. “Is she even going to talk to us?”

If Lark can’t get his magic back, I know Grant will come with me to find Ophelia. Lark’s already said he’ll help. But it’ll put him in danger, and as much as I’m trying to dislike him right now, I don’t want that.

“What’s that?” Grant murmurs. He’s looking up ahead, and when I squint, I see what looks like a building nestled among the pine trees.

“The witch’s house,” Lark says. “Come along. If we can see it, we can approach.”

I sigh. Grant waits for me to walk before he moves, even though his whole body is straining with his obvious curiosity and, I think, excitement.

I really hope this is going to work. I hold onto that hope as we make our way towards the house, which is really more like a cottage, squat and homey-looking, with smoke trailing from its stone chimney. All kinds of flowers surround us, some that I recognise and many more that I don’t. Magic ripples through them, too. This witch has built herself a powerful garden.

Lark comes to a stop as soon as we can see the front door. It’s been painted a deep crimson, with a small, round window set at the top. His fingers twitch. Is he nervous? Scared?