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The night is long and uncomfortable, bound as I am. My back and knees ache, and when Bradoc returns just after daybreak, I’m actually happy to see him. Maybe now he’ll untie me.
But when I catch a good look at him, it’s obvious that I’m not the only one feeling rough. His skin is pasty and clammier than before, with an odd greenish tint. Sweat beads his brow, and his breathing is labored, almost wet-sounding.
He’s shirtless, which not only reveals skin crisscrossed with scars, but also shows off the fresh, bloody wound on his chest, which is obviously festering. Its edges are ragged, and little red lines radiate out from it, a sure sign of infection. Worse, I can smell it from here.
I make a noise and point to my gag, and with a sigh, he removes it.
“What is it?” he asks.
“What happened to you? Are you okay?”
He shakes his head. “No. I was struck by a poisoned arrow. It is fast-acting, and there is no cure, leaving me with only days to live. The Galkaj tribe is clever with their concoctions,” he says darkly.
I blink at him, taken aback by his frank statement. “I’m sorry, what? You’re dying?”
He nods, seemingly unperturbed. “It is a risk we all take, but the raids are necessary. We have acquired game and women, which will give my death meaning.”
Well. How very alpha male of him. “You don’t have some sort of doctor who can help you?”
“We have a healer,” he says, “but there is nothing to be done. As I said, there is no cure for this poison.”
I narrow my eyes. One of the biggest advantages to my dryad heritage is my innate knowledge of herbs and medicinal plants. I’m skilled with them, and his wound doesn’t look too far gone. Yet.
“I doubt that,” I say. “Most poisons can be cured, if your healer knows what they’re doing. Which I guess yours doesn’t.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You are a healer as well?”
I shrug. “From time to time. It doesn’t really come up much.” Working in a bakery and café rarely leads to the need for plant-based medicines.
“Can you help me?”
“Probably, but why should I?”
“Because no other member of my tribe speaks your language. If I die, they will not simply let you go. But no one will marry you, either—who would take a wife who cannot understand her husband’s commands? Instead, they would throw you in with the rest of the game to be slaughtered. But if you aid me, I will return the favor and ensure you live.”
Well. Talk about an offer I can’t refuse.
“Fine. I’ll try to help. But you’ll have to untie me. And I have to go into the forest to forage for plants.”
“I will go with you,” he says.
“Are you kidding?” I point to the horrid wound. “You areliterallydying. You can’t tromp around the woods with me.”
“None of the others will understand you or be able to help you search. Besides, staying here won’t change the fact that I’m being poisoned to death. I can die just as easily in the woods as here.”
Okaaay. This guy brings pragmatic to a whole new level. Like he seems seriously unbothered about his imminent death. Then again, I guess we never know how we’ll react to an unexpected situation.
If someone had told me I’d get kidnapped by wild, non-human mountain people, tied up, and threatened, I would assume that I’d be terrified. But weirdly, I’m still not that scared. More just…oddly fascinated? And annoyed that I haven’t found a way to escape yet.
I suppose I could try to run away from Bradoc in the woods, but I have a feeling he’d catch me, even in his weakened state. Besides, I feel oddly compelled to help him, which is kind of irritating. I shouldn’t. He fucking kidnapped me. But I’m a sucker for the injured, from birds with broken wings to dogs with mange. To…whatever the hell he is.
Even ill, he’s a sight to behold. I’m 5’9” and athletically curvy, but he absolutely dwarfs me. He must be close to eight feet tall, and probably 350 pounds of raw, solid muscle. Not gym muscle either, but the rough-hewn kind that comes from mountain living.
Huge, powerful horns swoop back from his head, small tusks emerge from his generous lips, and his face is lined with intriguing scars, just like his chest.
His pale hair is braided back from his face, revealing pointed ears, but then flows over his shoulders and down his back, an intricate style worthy of a social media influencer. He’s battered and fierce, and utterly fascinating.
I meet his gaze; his eyes are such a light gray that they’re nearly silver. “I have a question before we do anything. What are you? Your species?”
