Page 9 of Escape from the Green

The pace after our short break was nowhere near as punishing, just a brisk walk. A brisk walk through the freezing woods in a foot of snow, but a brisk walk all the same.

Even so though, around the time that night finally started to fall, I was aching in places I didn't realize could even hurt. Every single muscle in my legs, thighs, butt, back, and midsection was screaming with every step I took. My feet hurt as well, and while the good construction of my shoes seemed to have prevented blisters, each step was a stabbing sensation.

So maybe cardio and that other thing humans did - weight training.

Maybe then I could do a hike without being in crippling pain.

Drake didn't seem likewise afflicted, his steps and pace even, no tension hinting at pain. That being said, he was kept in shape doing long, grueling hours of manual labor or he risked a beating. Sometimes he got a beating even if he did the work exactly as demanded because my father's guards were terrible and simply liked inflicting pain. So his much bigger, much more chiseled body was used to being tested.

That was why I clamped my lips together hard enough to make my jaw hurt and just kept pressing on.

If he wasn't going to complain, neither was I.

I watched his back as he stepped to the edge of a steep hill, seeming to work to gauge if we could make it down without tumbling or not.

He really was a giant of a man.

While most of my family and the guards were tall, not many were quite as massive, and none were the solidly muscled sort of fit that he was. That, in my very limited experience both in The Green and in the human realm, was just not how most men were built. Except for maybe the humans who exercised excessively or the fae, like Drake, who were put to manual labor.

Inexplicably, I felt myself rather affected by it. I always had. In fact, I was suddenly glad it was winter because the heavy coat he had on at least kept those distracting muscles of his from view.

"Amethyst," his voice called, soft but firm at the same time, as though he had maybe called me more than once and I hadn't heard. You know, because I was thinking about his freaking muscles for some idiotic reason.

I jerked back, shaking my head, seeing his hand extended toward me. "Amy," I corrected, giving him a smile. "I think being on the run from our captors calls for nicknames, don't you?"

"Amy," he repeated, but doing it differently than the humans would. Where they would say A-me, he said Ammy. I found I liked his way much better. He raised a brow when I still didn't take his outstretched hand, making a strange surge of insecurity flood my system as I forced the oddly numb limb to raise and slid my much smaller hand into his massive, strong, work-hardened one. I bet if I didn't have the gloves on, I would find his palm rough, calloused, and the top scarred as well as his fingers.

What the hell?

What was wrong with me?

First his muscles.

Then his fingers.

It was the nerves, I was sure. Or, at least, I was trying to convince myself of that.

"Honey, you need some food or something?" he asked, brows furrowing more. I guess my face must have been confused, because he went on, "You seem out of it."

Maybe I did need food.

That would possibly explain why my brain was running away with itself when every thought should have been focused on escape and survival. The fact of the matter was, Drake wasn't going to be with me forever and I needed to keep an eye for threats. I wasn't sure where his land was, but I knew we were likely to come upon that before we would come upon the human realm. I needed to focus on what food sources were available in the wintertime. I knew there wouldn't be much, but maybe there were some mushrooms. Mushrooms would get me days if I ate them sparingly. And nuts. There were usually a few hanging around if you looked up in the trees.

That, though, would require hitting them out of the trees or, you know, climbing up into them. I was pretty sure I would have no skills at either task.

But, as the humans always say, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I would do what I had to do to survive, to get free, to make a life for myself that didn't have me constantly living in fear of what mood my mother might be in, in what way she might inflict it upon me simply for existing, for being in her eyesight, for, maybe, reminding her of how young she used to be, how she used to be able to use that to her advantage. She was beautiful even now, but in an icy way, in a way that said she was about as warm as a handful of snow, that said her heart was a frozen-over forest, nothing but mangled trees and frigid bodies overcome by the low temperatures.

I had something she never would.

And she wanted to destroy that.

It had been her life's mission.

To chill the warm out of my heart, to make me a hollowed-out shell much like herself.

After all, she could use me better if my only motive in life was the same as hers - to use others to make my life better.