I huddled into Sainte’s back, a shiver of fear shooting down my spine.
The witches I’d encountered before were unsettling with their potions and cryptic words, but this one exuded raw power. Her dark gaze held a knowing, haunting intensity.
“Steady.” Sainte spoke low and placed his hand over mine, holding me against him.
Maybe it was the eerie glow of the twin moons that heightened my unease, but encountering a witch lurking in wait as we passed didn’t bode well for my nerves.
Sainte’s earlier assessment proved true when, moments later, the dense forest gave way to a village nestled among the trees. The cozy homes, clustered together, appeared inviting yet secluded. We approached the first house. Its quaint fenced-in yard and small stable added to the rustic charm. As we neared, Urien dismounted and started for the door.
A man draped in a fur cloak answered. He eyed our group warily, speaking in low tones. Coin exchanged hands, and we secured refuge for the night. A bed—even a simple mattress on the floor would be welcome. It wasn’t like I was accustomed to much, princess or not.
I stumbled behind Sainte as he walked inside. A candle cast flickering light across the modest room, its warm glow dancing on the walls. I coughed, the air heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs. My eyes roamed the shadows, wondering where everyone would sleep.
The stranger folded his beefy arms across his chest, lifting his chin. “If ye’r carryin’ the plague–”
“A tumble in the river,” Sainte interrupted, speaking Muik. “A single night under a roof is all we ask.”
The man grabbed the candle, lifting it to peer at me. He was in his middle years, eyes weary, dark hair mussed with sleep. Satisfied with what he saw, he huffed and walked to a corner where a blanket was nailed to the ceiling. He pushed it aside to reveal a small mat stuffed with straw.
“‘Tis the best ye’ll find ‘round these parts.”
I blinked, waiting. When Sainte gave his nod of approval, I needed no further encouragement. I flopped ungracefully, pulling the worn blanket to my chin. My heavy eyes fluttered shut, and exhaustion dragged me into a glorious sleep.
We traveled hard the next few days, resulting in sore legs and nether regions, but the ache in my heart worried me the most.
When I stirred from my slumber, unease weighed heavy on my chest. The men bustled about the campsite. Their hushed conversations and movements held their focus elsewhere, oblivious to my presence. I frowned, burrowing deeper into the blanket, then slid my fingers between my legs. At the feel ofdampness, my jaw clenched, and I brought my hand into the sunlight—a sheen of crimson.
“You’re hurt?” Sainte’s voice was rough with sleep.
I yelped, shoving my arm beneath the fabric, then scrunched my eyes shut. Maybe I could ignore him. Perhaps this was simply a terrible dream.
One could wish.
I grimaced as Sainte crouched beside me, his hand gently tugging at the blanket.
“No,” I grumbled, holding it tight.
“Are you hurt?” he repeated.
“No,” I snapped again, burying my head as if I could hide from all my problems.
After a moment of silence, the sound of his retreating footsteps signaled his departure.
I sighed with relief and scowled at the morning sky. This was miserable. At least I had Kelsie when I first started bleeding. When I fled, Lyana taught me how to care for it on the streets. Now, I had to figure out how to cope surrounded by a group of men who wouldn’t understand. Chances were, my trousers needed a good wash, as well as the blanket. Though my pants weren’t high on my priority list, they were already being stained beyond repair.
Ethyan avoided Lyana and me when we bled, treating us as if we had some contagious disease. We used that time to enjoy each other’s company, free of his incessant nagging.
Funny how he would exhale in relief upon learning he hadn’t fathered a babe, yet was repelled by the physical signs of a woman’s body showing it was without child.
Men were so double-minded.
As footsteps approached, I twisted to see Sainte. With a swift tug, he stretched a tunic to its limits before it tore. Each rip drew a wince for the wasted cloth. He moved closer, gaze fixed on his task, and I frowned, curiosity piqued. When he dropped into a crouch beside me, holding out the strips and a waterskin, I froze.
“Go, clean up,” he said.
I stared at his offering with narrowed eyes. He didn’t appear disgusted or appalled, and spoke as if this were a common occurrence. It certainly was forme, but I wasn’t accustomed to men treating it so casually.
“You don’t happen to have a spare pair of trousers?” I shoved myself upright, accepted the items, then sipped from the waterskin.
