I blink, and they’re still there. Five human-shaped blobs, barely visible against the night sky that are growing larger. They’re far away, but everything within me screams that they’re dangerous.
“Gabriel,” I whisper urgently, my voice far too loud in the silence of the woods. “Do you see that?”
Pointing towards the shapes with one hand, I reach up with the other and tug my hood as far as it will go, concealing my Mark’s glow.
There’s a moment’s pause as Gabriel follows my trembling finger.
“Gods damn it. Those are Watchers.” The low sound sends shivers cascading down my spine.
His arm tightens. He drags me back, and his hardened length isrightthere. I can feel all of it, and oh, gods. I’ve been doing a pretty good job of ignoring that particular part of the Hunter, but there’s no doing that now. Even though I try to tell myself this is a natural reaction, something that comes from sharing the same horse, I don’t really believe it.
“Hold on, Wren.”
It’s the only warning I get before Gabriel whispers a command. Chaos bolts off the road, moving faster than before, and my fingers fly off the saddle. My nails dig into Gabriel’s arm, but he must be made of steel, because he doesn’t react.
We fly past trees, their branches clawing at us as we seek the security of the dark woods. Our surroundings pass in a blur, and I do as Gabriel said—I hold on like my life depends on it.
Because it does.
I used to think riding horses would be fun. Itlookedfun when all I could do was watch as my brothers Markus and James rode.
It turns out, I was wrong. Suns save me, I was so incredibly wrong.
After riding for five consecutive days, I’ve concluded that while horses seem nice and they look pretty, riding is not for me. All of me, from my head to my toes, which are currently tucked inside my fur-lined boots, courtesy of Maia, hurts. I am one giant bruise, and even breathing feels like a chore.
There is a pain in my hips that started on the first night, and it hasn’t let up since. My hips, my legs, even my butt hurts,crying out whenever I move. For the suns’ fucking sakes, I never even knew thereweremuscles in my bottom.
Even though we stop to give Chaos—and ourselves—frequent breaks, it doesn’t seem like enough. Each time we get back on the horse, the pain is exponentially worse.
Dark and gloomy woods surround me where I stand next to the gelding. Trees, tall and spindly and lacking all signs of life, cast dark shadows around us as the moons rise. A stream is trickling nearby, the source of our drinking water.
Earlier, when I woke in the late afternoon, I wet a cloth and cleaned my body as best I could. The sponge bath had felt as luxurious as a long soak in a hot spring after days of riding. I would give anything to wash my hair, but there’s no time for that. The moons are ascending, and it’s almost time to ride again.
Chaos’s black flank glistens in the gloaming light, and I stare at him, trying to mentally prepare myself for another night of riding.
Honestly, it’s not going well.
Gabriel left a few minutes ago to do gods only know what. Probably to commune with his panther since they seem attached at the hip. I didn’t ask, because I have bigger problems on my hands than keeping track of the Hunter. Namely, riding.
Chaos looks over at me, his brown eyes so dark, they’re nearly black. They narrow, as if he’s askingAre you ready for tonight?
The answer is a resounding no. I am definitely not, nor do I think I would be even if I had days to prepare.
The only good thing about riding—goodbeing a relative term—is that it’s kept my mind off the constant waves of grief threatening to batter me like water against a shore. Grief for Amelia, Kadyn, and for my family, who I don’t think I’ll ever see again.
At least when I’m in pain, I’m not thinking about all the ways my life has irrevocably changed since my Giving Day. Even the clothes I’m wearing are different.
Gone is the green representing my status as a Given. Instead, I’m wearing tight, curve-hugging black pants that guard against the cold, and a long black tunic that brushes the middle of my thighs as I walk. The sleeves and hem are embroidered in silver thread, and the material feels far more expensive than anything I’ve ever worn. Smooth and soft, it’s like wearing money. My feet are kept warm in a pair of fur-lined boots, and the black cloak Maia sent is thick.
I look like I belong in the woods, not a temple, which was probably the objective.
Chaos whinnies, drawing my attention back to him.
“I’m sore all over,” I confess in a hushed whisper, running my hand down the steed’s midnight flank. His hair is soft and thick enough to keep him warm during the winter months.
Would riding hurt so much if I’d been taught how to do this when I was a child? I doubt it. Yet another thing I was denied because of my Mark.
A blue sheen coats the horse’s flank, and my forehead heats. I blow out a long breath, trying to force my Mark to cool. I’m not sure it works, but at least there aren’t any sparks dancing on my fingers.
