Page 20 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

And I will not be prey.

He’s close now—his rage pulsing angrily against my skin to the rhythm of a heartbeat.

I clench my fists, so very tired of being hunted, and something snaps within me. It’s one thing for someone to come here to enact whatever revenge on me they think is owed for washing their loved one’s clothing, but another altogether to toy with me. I’d rather face what’s coming and move forward. Not stand here waiting for whoever’s out there to find their courage and get whatever cruelty they’re planning over with. My own fury flares in my chest.

“Stop being a coward, and face me!” I shout, spinning in a circle, scanning the valley.

There is a beat of complete silence, weighted and foreboding.

And then one of the shadows thickens. My stomach twists as it morphs from a vague smear of darkness to a large, broad-shouldered man. He stops, just far enough inside the shadows that I can't fully make out his features.

It’s terrifying, the way I can sense him watching me. Examining me like he’s searching for weaknesses. Assessing for vulnerabilities.

I stand taller and try to do the same. The man is tall, with thick, corded arms and a muscular chest, and even without seeing his face, I know his jaw is set into a hard, tight line. The shadow steps closer, and the details sharpen.

My breath hitches. The man is striking, his imperfections making him appear almost otherworldly. It is clear his nose was broken at some point and never set, the bridge slightly crooked, and a faint scar runs from his right eyebrow into his hairline. He’s tan, as if he spends most of his time outdoors, and thick waves of brown hair fall into his eyes.

A dark tartan kilt is wrapped around his waist, deep greens and thin stripes of blood-red, belted at the waist and falling in pleats to his knees. Over it, he wears a fitted wool tunic, reinforced with leather at the shoulders, forearms, and wrists.

The clothes of a warrior. A Dìdeanair.

Dàn are inked on his arms—more than I’ve ever seen before. One peeks from his tunic at his chest, and another jumps with the pulse in his neck.

True fear flickers in my chest. There are very few people in this kingdom who have that much magic. Magic that could actually hurt me. Make me wish for death even more fervently than I do now.

“Who are you?” I ask, but the stranger doesn’t answer, only his eyes moving, trailing down my body from head to feet.

I fight the urge to squirm beneath the man’s furious gaze. He remains deadly still, as if daring me to challenge him. Answer me! I want to scream, but the darkness in his eyes stops me cold.

“I have nothing for you to take,” I suppress a shiver as his hatred sharpens to a point, aimed directly at my chest.

The man doesn't turn away. Doesn’t move at all. He’s still studying me, his forest-green eyes heating my skin as they bore into me, but what he's looking for, I don't know.

His angular jaw bunches, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles.

“Whoever’s clothes I washed, I cannot take it back,” I say. My voice comes out weaker each time I speak, and while I hate it, the weakness I sense in my tone, I can’t seem to stop it. Why isn’t he answering me? What could this man possibly want?

He finally moves.

Fear pounds like an axe in my chest, and my sense of dread and danger grow larger than my dragon’s wings as the man stalks forward, purposeful, his plaid swishing with every step, boots crunching on the rocks.

Absolute loathing radiates off him in waves as his eyes meet mine, his teeth clenching so tight, I wonder if they will crack under the pressure. The emotion doesn’t feel vague, but targeted. Sharp and aimed directly at me, and I take an involuntary step back.

The man’s hand shoots to his hip where a long, glinting dagger sits in a leather holster, and the air is stolen from my lungs. I search the man’s face for any hint of recognition. Did I wash the clothes of someone he loved recently? I don’t think so. His features are wholly unfamiliar.

His fingers hover just above his weapon, but he stops himself from grabbing it, instead clenching his hand into a fist—a movement that doesn’t feel like hesitation but control. As if the impulse to draw blood is something that has been trained out of him.

“Are you her?” he asks, finally speaking. His voice is deep. Strong, and the roughness of it rumbles through my bones almost painfully.

I don’t answer, certain if I try to speak, my voice will shake and betray how afraid of this strange man I truly am.

“The Washwoman of the River Bàsail. The Bean-Nighe. Are you her?” His tone lowers.

The question has an obvious answer, and I want to snap back at him. Do you see any other women with blood-stained hands chained to this shore? I almost spit out the retort, but hold my tongue when his eyes darken.

“Are. You. Her?” He punctuates each word with a slow, deliberate step forward, his gravelly voice wrapping around my body and squeezing, rough and furious, demanding answers. I press my lips together, and this time, he does draw his dagger. In a breath, he’s standing in front of me, the tip of his blade pressed where the skin of my neck meets my chin. He tilts the dagger, forcing my head back to meet his eyes, and the metal nicks my throat as I swallow.

I lean back, but I cannot escape the pressure of the weapon. “Aye," I say, my own voice barely a whisper. There’s no use denying it. I am the only one chained to this shore, after all.