Page 133 of Fallacies

“Let go!” I hiss, digging my heels into the ground, panic taking over my entire body. “Let me⁠—”

My back hits something hard, and his hand comes up to cover my mouth.

“I’m not going to fucking hurt you.” He seems appalled by the notion, teeth bared in annoyance as he jerks his chin in the direction of the Estate. “We aren’t alone.”

His hand still covering my mouth, I follow his gaze, spotting the distant silhouette of two people passing through the woods ahead. Rogues, judging by his—dare I say—protective demeanor.

The tension in my body softens. Barely. The concern on the Hound’s moonlit profile is the only reason I’m not terrified to be this close to him. Besides, he seems to have this under control.

After he studies their forms for a long minute, he looks back at me. “Just stay quiet and still. Can you do that?”

I decide that biting his hand for speaking to me as if I’m a child would only serve to prove the opposite, so I swallow my offence and nod, relaxing enough that he removes his hand.

At the first full breath I take, I realize his torso is pressed too tightly against my ribcage, restricting my ability to inhale fully. Because of this, my breaths become short and shallow, and trying to stay still quickly becomes an insurmountable task.

I wiggle my shoulders, trying to relieve some of the pressure.

“What are you doing?” He doesn’t even look at me as he speaks, his gaze trained in the direction of low voices at the edge of the forest.

Not responding, I fidget again, and he snaps his attention to me. “Stop that.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can.”

I glare up at him. “Oh, I can? Tell me, what else am I feeling?”

This question poses no challenge to him. “Annoyed. Slightly afraid and very flustered. And yet, you reek of determination. It’s getting worse by the second.” My jaw slackens, and he scoffs, retraining his attention on the Rogues. “I hate this just as much as you do,” he says. “Trust me.”

Tightening my jaw, I try to focus on anything but him. “I trust you about as far as I can throw you,” I mutter to myself.

A whopping inch. If that.

“Hey!” A man shouts, close enough that the Hound presses further in, his grip on the trunk behind me tight enough that the wood groans. My lungs burn as I hold in my gasp for air. “Come back here,” he adds playfully, the Rogue’s laughter echoing through the silent forest.

Leaves and sticks crunch—footsteps getting closer.

“Oh, come on, Greer!” the male teases. “You aren’t afraid of the Madwood, are ya?”

Greer? My brows pinch. The Madwood?

Honestly, I can’t think of a better way to describe this place. It isn’t like the woods in Draycott or even in Pirn. It’s darker. Denser. Slightly less inviting and far more…beastly. Like it might swallow you whole should you take a wrong turn or overstay your welcome.

Madwood makes sense—I feel insane just standing in it. But I decide to attribute most of that to the lack of oxygen going to my brain thanks to the boulder pressing into my lungs, and the foreign scent of said boulder fucking with my senses.

I shift on my feet, spine digging into the bark.

Crystal eyes snap to mine.

“Why can’t you just…do that, um...” He glares down at me as I search for the right word, and by the time I’ve found it, I can tell he’d rather me just stop talking altogether. “...neck snapping thing? Like you did to that guard?”

The Hound’s too-perfect features twist into an expression of incredulous annoyance. “You want three bodies to deal with tonight?”

“If it means not getting caught?” I counter back in a sharp whisper. “Yes.”

Disbelief flares in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything back. Instead, he shakes his head and refocuses on the Rogues—Greer and whoever she’s with.

When he spots them, whatever view he’s met with gives him pause, his expression softening into something almost smug.