Maybe ten feet. Someone grabs my arm and wrenches me backward. The basket goes flying—flowers scattering, all those colors hitting dirt—and I fight. Teeth into the hand holding me. Copper flooding my mouth. He's yelling. Knee up toward his groin—miss, catch his thigh—
The knife.
My fingers close around the handle. I slash at the arm gripping me. He screams. Blood welling through his sleeve—deep, that's deep, good—and I twist free and put the tree at my back.
"Little bitch cut me—"
The second one comes from the side. I swing wild, catch his forearm—not deep enough—and his fist connects with my cheek. My head snaps back, skull cracking against bark.
Stars. Actual—
Ground under my hands. Blood in my mouth frombiting my tongue. Hands grabbing at my arms. I kick out—connect, bone maybe—
"Hold her still—"
Scrambling back. Knife still in my grip but my hand won't stop shaking. The one I cut is holding his arm, red between his fingers. Should've gone deeper. Should've aimed for the throat.
Branches snapping behind me. Something tearing through the trees. Faster than any man.
Then silence except for my own breathing.
Keer.
Naked. Covered in blood that isn't his. Chest heaving, scars standing white against flushed skin. His sharp gaze finds me against the tree, back to bark, knife in my shaking hand.
For half a second, his face cracks open.
Then it's gone.
"What thefuckwere you thinking?"
I flinch. Hate that I flinch.
My cheek throbs and he's standing there furious at me, blood drying brown on his chest, and I can see his scars up close for the first time—the long one across his ribs, the thick one at his collarbone—and that one healed wrong, someone pulled the edges too tight, and he's yelling at me—
"I was getting flowers."
"Flowers?" He's closing the distance, so big, so angry, and I'm still holding a crushed stem in my other hand. Purple petals. Ruined. "You left the territory.Alone. Without telling anyone.For fucking flowers."
"Well, for dye, actually. Everything here is brown. The whole village is beige and gray and depressing and—"
"You almostdied."
"I was fine until—"
"You were NOT fine." Right in front of me now. Close enough that I can see the blood drying in the hollow of his throat. I am not looking at his throat. "You were pinned down. If I hadn't caught your scent—if I'd been five minutes later—"
"But you weren't! You showed up and—"
"And what if I hadn't?" His voice cracks. Raw underneath. Shaking underneath. "What then? What happens when you wander off and there's no one coming?"
"I don't need saving!"
"You JUST did! Thirty seconds ago!"
"That's not—I mean—I had a knife—"
"A knife." He laughs, no humor in it, and runs a hand through his hair. Gets blood in it. "A tiny knife against two armed men."
