I’m cold, so cold, and I don’t want to die, but we are far from a hospital, far from any place I recognize or know.
“I can’t die,” I deliriously mumble. “I haven’t even grown my own sourdough starter.”
The rhythm of the horse’s hooves softens to a slow trot, and the rider shifts behind me. The shape of a house—or what once was one—stands out against the trees, its silhouette sagging and half devoured by the forest; ivy smothers its sides, weeds sprout from the wooden shingle roof, and dead leaves scar the drooping porch steps. It’s an abandoned horror-movie house—the exact kind of place a murderer would take the woman he kidnapped.
He slides down from the horse, his cloak flapping behind him, and I catch a hint of gold thread woven into its lining in intricate symbols I can’t quite make out. He reaches for me, and before I can resist, he pulls me off the saddle to the fern-dotted forest floor. My trembling hands grip his cloak, so dry and warm that I wouldn’t believe he’d ridden through a rainstorm if I hadn’t been there myself.
My teeth chatter uncontrollably, and I’m shaking so violently, it hurts when his arms close around me. I push away from him weakly, but he lets me go.
“I—I c-can walk,” I force out, although my body doesn’t listen. My knees buckle, and he’s there to catch me before I hit the ground. He scoops me up like I’m full of feathers, like this is a fairy tale and he’s every knight in shining armor. He holds me against his chest and steps onto the porch that creaks and groans beneath our weight.
“You’re as sturdy as a newly birthed fawn,” he says, the words a low hum. He kicks the door open like it’s personally offended him, and we plunge into darkness.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the streaks of moonlight struggling to break in through the cobweb-covered windows. He sets me in a chair that protests as much as I want to and strides to a fireplace so large, it swallows half the wall. I watch his shadowed movements as he takes logs from a stacked pile of split wood and tosses them into the hearth. The fireplace coughs a plume of ash that hangs in dancing motes around his kneeling silhouette. He lights a match and mutters words I’m too tired and cold to decipher and tosses the small flame onto the wood. It flares to life in ahungry, crackling blaze that spills amber light throughout the long-forgotten small home.
Warmth brushes my exposed skin as I dazedly take in the dusty wooden furniture. A hand-carved chair like the one I’m on sits across from me, a tattered and dried-out animal pelt thrown across the seat. There’s a small table in one corner of the room and a twin-size bed in the other, its covers rumpled but dust-free, recently slept in.
My dress feels like ice against my skin, and I ball my slowly warming fingers into fists in my lap. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I told you in the palace,” he says, removing his cloak. “I can help you.”
Thepalace. My head spins. “But why—Where are—”
He whips off his cape and throws it across the empty chair. The front of his gray linen shirt is wet from holding me against him and as dark as soaked stone. He peels off his shirt, and no matter how much I want to keep gawking, my lids drift closed for a moment too long. When I reopen them, he’s dressed in a dirty white shirt and warming himself in front of the fire.
“Get out of those wet clothes,” he commands with a nod to my sodden dress.
“No!” I wrap my arms around my middle, defiance narrowing my brows. “I don’t want to.” It’s a hollow rebellion. I’m freezing, and the thought of shedding my wet dress and pulling this chair closer to the fire is so delicious, my vision swims.
His lips tip into a sly smile that makes my heart skip. “Modest, are you, Little Fawn?” The moniker brings a chill to my already-frozen limbs, as if he can see right through me.
With a chuckle, he scrapes his long fingers across his stubbled cheek. “Then you’ll be a modest corpse. My saving you will have been for nothing.”
He’s right, and I know it.
I swallow and grit my teeth against the pain in my side as I lean over to untie my boots. “Are…are you going to kill me?” I tug on the laces and slide my feet free, my hands trembling.
He lets out a frustrated sigh and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why save you from those men only to end you myself?”
I use my last ounce of strength and push myself up from the chair, my legs shaking beneath me. “Enough of this bullshit, answering my questions with questions. Who the hell are you?” My voice is stronger than I feel, each word a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control.
He walks to me and pushes my wet hair from my shoulders, surprisingly gentle. His fingers brush the buttons on the front of my dress. He takes one small pearl between his fingers to pop it free, but I grab his wrist.
Thick cords of muscle flex beneath my fingers as his dark eyes catch mine, holding them with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. “I am Kane, protector of the Kingdom of Pentacles and every body within its lands.” He removes his hand from my dress and brushes his gaze over me.
I try to stand taller, to match his strength and certainty, but I’m so small compared to him.
The firelight dances across his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw as he reaches for his sword. Hedraws it, the silver blade beaded with blood, and I take a step back, my calves bumping into the heavy wooden chair behind me.
“If I wanted you dead, Little Fawn, I wouldn’t have risked my life to save yours.” He points to the symbols etched into the steel like they’ll explain everything. The engravings match the markings stitched into his cloak, but they’re nothing I can read or have even seen before. “I am of the king’s guard.”
“The king’s guard? What is this, England?” Wild laughter itches the back of my throat, and if I weren’t so dizzy and cold, I’d erupt into hysterics. “And what year is it, 1810?”
“Why would a year have a number and not a name?” He shakes his head, his dark hair brushing his shoulders. “Ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “The Kingdom of Pentacles. Ridiculous.”
Pentacles… The star inside the circle—like the back of the card in the snow and the gold embroidery along the border of the deep-red silk in the bedroom…
