I wake up to a foggy dawn, my feet freezing where the blanket has ridden up, exposing my bare ankles. The front of my body is warm, however, and I snuggle in the covers, thinking that Wren is pressed up against me, still asleep.
Only it’s not her small body I touch. It’s a nest of blankets, cozy, but empty.
Eyes flying open, I sit up, searching frantically.
“Wren?” I croak, then clear my throat. “Wren!”
“She’s here, Hazel,” a deep voice answers.
I whip my head around. Vark stands by the horses, putting away a coarse blanket—one he must have just taken from the first of the horses, because all the others are still wearing theirs, protected from the cold. And on top of that first horse is Wren, comically small, her fingers wrapped in the horse’s mane.
She’s trying to braid it. Her face is scrunched up in concentration as she twists the long strands into knots.
The horse whinnies softly, as if complaining about the girl pulling at his hair, and Vark takes a carrot from his pocket and feeds it to the animal, petting the horse’s forehead.
Oh.
She’s safe. Safe and having fun.
My breath lodges in my throat, painful, and sweat breaks out all over my body. She’s not in danger, but my mind is still catching up with the fact, my heart beating too fast, my breath coming in shallow pants.
I don’t want Wren to see me like this.
The last thing I want is for her to think that she’s done something wrong. No, I want her to be a child, for gods’ sake, I want her to play and braid the fucking horse’s hair if she wants to. So I turn my back on her and Vark and bury my face in my knees, muffling my panicked breathing in my sleeve.
Vark murmurs something, then footsteps crunch on the frosty grass. He’s letting me know he’s coming close—I know by now he can move without being heard. His hand lands on my shoulder, and I curl myself into a ball, unwilling to show my face yet.
“She woke up before you,” he murmurs. “She had to go to the toilet, so Ritta took her. Then we gave her some porridge and let you sleep.”
“Thank you,” I manage to force out between ragged breaths.
Finally, I raise my head and glance over my shoulder at Wren. Korr is with her now, holding her up on his hip and showing her how to feed carrots to the other horses. She shies away from the beasts but not from the orc.
No one has taught her to be afraid of the green-skinned men yet.
“She’s quiet for a child her age,” Vark says thoughtfully.
I send him a sharp glare. “What of it?”
He lifts his hands as if in surrender. “I meant nothing bad. Just an observation. I don’t know many human children her age, so maybe I’m wrong.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, worrying it with my teeth. I don’t know that many human children either. Apart from Wren, we didn’t have any in Timo’s gang. He’d always claimed they were a liability and refused to take on anyone under the age of thirteen. So maybe Wren is quiet for her age. At least with other people. She isn’t quiet with me—which could be why I never noticed her lack of interaction with others.
But I’m not ready to discuss that with Vark. I’m grateful for his protection and help, but one night doesn’t entitle him to the intimate details of our lives.
“Thank you for feeding her.” My breathing is nearly back to normal, so I stand and fold the blankets we used. “We’ll be out of your hair soon.”
Wren waves at me, a half-eaten apple clutched in her fist. I’m not sure whether the apple was intended for the horses, but Korr doesn’t seem to be worried, so I let them be. I’ll ask Vark for more food for the road, and then we’ll leave. It’ll hurt to beg, but my pride is long gone, especially when it comes to feeding my baby girl.
“You cannot leave.” Vark frowns down at me.
I stack the blankets and offer them to him. He takes them from me, then drops them on the ground at his feet. Shrugging, I stalk away from the campfire, toward the bushes. He follows, a menacing and insistent shadow.
“I need some privacy,” I inform him.
He flushes a deeper shade of green and turns his back on me—but doesn’t walk away. Cursing under my breath, I shove my way deeper into the bushes and squat to pee. The orcs clearly don’t have any regard for personal space or propriety, not that I’m surprised.
I realize I’m making assumptions about them again and scowl even more. Now I feel bad for even thinking unkind thoughts about him. I force down my growl and lace up my leather pants, then stomp out of the undergrowth, not caring about how much noise I’m making.
Vark pounces on me the moment I’m back at his side.
“Where will you go?” he demands. “Do you have a plan?”
My basic plan when getting on his wagon had been to run away. Away from Timo, away from the dirty, hungry streets of Ultrup, away from a life I never wanted in the first place. I’d been toying with the idea of starting fresh somewhere far from the people I’ve known half my life—but our situation had grown unbearable so much faster than I’d anticipated.
I’d heard that Sigda, a coastal town with a large port, always had a need for more workers, so that’s where I wanted to try our luck. The merchants I’d talked to in secret said it was a two-week ride from Ultrup, which would mean an even longer journey for us if we had to go there on foot.
“I have a plan,” I reply testily.
It’s not a complete lie. I do know that I want to find some honest work for a change, go from picking pockets and cutting purses to maybe working as a barmaid in an inn or something. I’m a quick learner, so I know I can do whatever job they throw at me.
I only know that I want my daughter to grow up with a mother who’s not a criminal.
“So you have somewhere to go?” Vark presses. “And a way to get there?”
“Yes,” I force through my teeth. “It’s called walking.”
“With a four-year-old in tow? In wintertime?”
I grind to a stop and face him, furious. “What else would you have me do?”
I hate what he’s insinuating. Every day since I started taking care of Wren, I’ve doubted my ability to be a good mother to her. Every evening she’s had to go without food, I hated myself. And when Timo hit her…I stabbed him.
In the back.
For years, as a teenager, I’d had a crush on him. Then I learned what he was like—cruel and unforgiving. Finally, his brutality brought me to a point where stabbing him had been the only way out. There was so much blood, but later I’d heard he’d survived, so at least I wasn’t a murderer. Yet. If Timo ever came near us again and tried to hurt Wren, I would kill him.
Vark glowers back at me, his fists at his hips. “You should come with us.”
I scoff. “Is this because of the mate thing?”
“Aye.” Vark brings a hand up to the back of his neck. “But it’s not that simple. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“You made it very clear you don’t want me as your mate,” I say, “so let me make this easy for you—we’re not going with you.”
I turn on my heels and march in the direction of the fire. I know I left that satchel with food around there somewhere. Maybe I could take one of those blankets, too, tie it in a bundle and sling it on my back. It would go a long way in protecting us against the cold if we have to sleep under the stars for another night. I’m hoping we’re close enough to some village that we can find somewhere to stay, perhaps in exchange for a day’s work, but we’ll make do somehow.
“That’s not what I wanted to say,” Vark growls.
“It sounded like it,” I snipe, not even sure why I’m arguing anymore.
Whatever this mate thing entails, we’re far from being suited for each other. We’re from different species, for gods’ sake.
“You don’t even know how to protect yourself,” he snaps, still trailing behind me.
Of all the things—
I draw the knife from the lining of my cloak, drop it into my palm, and whirl on Vark. Aiming for his ribs, I stab, irritation and the need to prove myself driving my strike. It’s a fast, sharp jab, and I regret it the moment I realize I’m going to actually stab the male, right in his side, possibly killing him.
But it’s too late to pull back the blow.
Vark moves suddenly, blocking my arm with his palm. He strikes so fast I can barely track his maneuver, and within a second, he has a hand wrapped around my wrist. He squeezes, hard enough to hurt. I drop the knife with a yelp, shock coursing through me. Vark tugs me forward, so I slam into his solid chest, and wraps his other arm around me, pinning me in place.
The strength coiled in his big body is incredible—as is the heat radiating from him. His scent envelops me, messing with my brain. His closeness fills my mind with acutely carnal images of what it would feel like to have him wrapped around me in a very different setting. Would he take over and boss me around? My will to fight frays, but I can’t let him get the best of me.
Baring my teeth, I reach behind my back with my free hand and draw the thin stiletto dagger from the sheath strapped to my waist. I aim the blow for his groin, but Vark smacks the blade from my hand, his movement almost lazy, as if he was swatting a fly.
His grip on me tightens, and he reaches down to pluck the knives first from my left boot, then from my right. He throws them both, one after the other, and they lodge into the side of his wagon, an inch apart. The handles vibrate for a moment, then still, and in the silence that follows, my harsh breathing is the loudest sound.
Wordlessly, Vark pats me down for more blades, his touch businesslike, and snorts when he finds the last one in my sleeve, a needle-thin shiv with a piece of leather for a handle.
I grind my teeth together. “You’ve made your point. Now let me go.”
He puts his face close to my neck and inhales deeply. For the briefest moment, his hips rock forward, the hardness of him discernible through the layers of our clothes. Then he releases me, but not before I feel the shudder that goes through him. I stumble away, then whirl around and face him, my cheeks flaming—with embarrassment, but also with the knowledge that I’m not the only one affected. I wonder if he’ll mention it at all. But Vark’s expression is grim again, and he crosses his arms over his massive chest.
“You need to learn to fight better,” he states.
I scoff. “Well, I’m not going to be fighting orcs in the future, am I? I can protect myself just fine from regular men.”
“Can you protect Wren, too?” he insists, relentless. “I saw that bruise.”
The pain stabs me through the chest, the guilt and shame over what I’d let happen to her swamping me.
“Fuck you,” I spit. “You know nothing about us. About what we’ve been through.”
It’s for the best, I tell myself. It’s good that he’s saying all this, so I can remember that I’m not supposed to be feeling anything in his presence.
“You’re right,” he says. “I can help you if you’ll let me.”
But I’m beyond reason now, the hurt too deep. I want nothing to do with him, not after he went for my weakest spot.
“I’d rather stab myself,” I growl, then stoop to pick up the three blades he’d dropped on the ground.
Then I march over to where my two knives are still sticking out of the wagon’s side. It’s embarrassing that I have to use all my strength to pluck the blades out—Vark used so much force, the steel dug deep into the wood. And his aim was exceptional, too. He didn’t cut any of the ropes tying the canvas to the wooden frame of the wagon, and the knives are perfectly aligned.
“Let’s make a bet,” Vark says.
I jump—I hadn’t heard him come up behind me. Without turning, I scoff. “No.”
He gets right in my space, his warm breath brushing the back of my neck. Goosebumps race over my skin, and I freeze in place like prey in the presence of a predator, even though my fear is laced with a slow, curling excitement.
“Hazel.” He leans in close. “I’ll give you ten gold marks if you can beat me in a fight.”
