Page 36 of Wench

Her lines grow frantic, smudging at the edges. Every curve of her hand is a rebellion against the gnawing in her belly. If she draws fast enough, maybe she can outpace it. She taps her bare foot against the sill in a restless rhythm. A curl of hair sticks to her neck with sweat, and she brushes it away with the back of her wrist, leaving a smear of black against her skin.

A knock at the door startles her. It reverberates through the thin walls of the chamber, pulling her head up from the sketch. She freezes, charcoal suspended in her hand.

Another knock follows, harder this time, a command rather than a request, causing her to jump. The small basket of foraged fare on her lap spills across the floor. She hops off the ledge and gathers it instinctively, clutching the useless collection of mint leaves, wild nuts, and willow bark to her chest like a shield, her hunger-addled body trembling with the effort.

The third knock doesn’t come.

Instead, the door flies open, wood rattling in its frame as Lox strides inside without pause. His antlers brush the lintel as he steps over the threshold. He’s changed clothes since they last saw each other; clad in a dark shirt that’s unlaced at the throat and rolled to his forearms, vine-like markings sprawling down to his wrists. It’s tucked into trousers of deep-green, tight enough to show the powerful line of his legs, boots laced high and streaked with dust.

A tray balances in one of his hands. Steam curls off a slab of roasted venison flanked by mash and green beans slick with oil. A clay cup rests beside it, water beading cold on its sides. The scent fills the chamber instantly, rich and warm, drowning the faint bitterness of her fossicked scraps.

The gold in his eyes gleams brighter. It lands not on the sketchpad in her lap, or on her rumpled state of dress, but on the pitiful collection in her arms.

‘The fae don’t believe in knocking?’ Marian quips, shame heating her cheeks.

‘I did,’ Lox huffs. ‘You didn’t answer.’

‘That’s generally an invitation to leave a person alone, not barge into their room unannounced.’

He shuts the door behind him with a gentle press of his foot and strides further inside, setting the tray of food on the small table.

She eyes the offering. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Even if I could ignore your grumbling gut, I wouldn’t be able to disregard the rest of you,’ Lox says quietly, the usual edge in his voice dulled by something close to worry.

Marian forces herself to her feet, ignoring the way her legs quiver. ‘I told you, I’m not hungry.’

Lox’s nostrils flare as though catching her weakness on the air. ‘The light in your eyes has dimmed, and you move as if the ground’s about to give way beneath you.’ His gaze drifts down, lingering on the way her chemise hangs loose where it once clung. ‘You won’t last another week if you keep this up.’

The words strike closer to concern than command, which unsettles her more than if he’d shouted. Silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. His golden-green eyes pin her in place. They linger on the pout of her full lips, the way her tunic clings damply to the swell of her breasts. His expression shifts, just slightly, but enough for her to feel it.

‘You nearly collapsed at the healing bough,’ he continues.

His tone is clipped as he forces himself to look elsewhere.

Her mouth goes dry. ‘It was nothing,’ she lies, chin lifting.

‘It was not nothing,’ Lox growls, though the sound is tempered, caught halfway between decree and confession. He doesn’t move closer, but his presence fills the room all the same, pressing at the air until Marian feels cornered despite the open window at her back.

‘You think me a fool?’ She levels her gaze at him, even as heat dances between her ribs. ‘One taste, and I’ll forget my name. One swallow, and the woods will never let me leave. I won’t fall into your trap because you don’t like the sound of an empty stomach,’ she seethes.

Lox exhales through his nose, slowly, like he’s counting against his temper.

He takes a step closer, the lamplight carving gold into his cheekbones. ‘This is not survival, Mare.’

Her cheeks flare hot. She wants to claw that quiet certainty from his expression. ‘You don’t get to say it like that,’ she grinds out.

‘Like what?’

‘Like you care.’

The words hang between them, hot as an ember.

‘You mistake vigilance for sentiment,’ he answers flatly. ‘The forest charged me with your safety. If you starve, then I have failed my oath.’

‘I don’t need saving. I just need—’ Her voice breaks.

He tilts his head, antlers catching the light. ‘What is it you need?’