Page 119 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

Artain folds his arms over his half-bared chest, tossing a perfect lock of hair coquettishly off his forehead. “Vale is with the generals, drafting a plan to charbroil a fewthousand villagers to make a nice straight path to the throne foryou.”

I shouldn’t let this pretty bastard get under my skin—but damn, how I’d love to sink my fist into that smirk.

I cut to the chase. “Where’s Sabine?”

The words have barely left my lips when the delicate scent of violets wafts into the morning air, chasing away the gods’ purulent scents of iron and myrrh. I hear her soft footsteps long before she reaches the southern gate, but I’m still not prepared when she steps out into the dawn light.

When priests speak of angels, they speak of her.

She wears tall boots and wool military trousers that still have Captain Tatarin’s hemlock scent on them. The captain is a few sizes smaller than Sabine, so the pants squeeze Sabine’s ass in a way that reveals every curve—like a gods-damn map to paradise.

Her face is free of makeup. Bare. Natural. I struggle to swallow. Like this, she reminds me so much of my dreams of her—of us—sleeping together under stars instead of crystal chandeliers.

“Lady Sabine.” Artain offers a wolfish smile. “The key player in our game. Without you, Lord Basten and I would be left with nothing to compare as huntsmen but our shafts.” He shoots me another smirk. “I speak of arrows, of course.”

This fucking asshole.

Equally unamused, Sabine crosses her arms tightly over her chest. She looks as calm as if she’s spent years putting up with fae rogueries, but I can hear how shallow her breaths fall. How much she’s fighting to hide her nerves.

She tucks back a strand of hair,eyes briefly landing on me with a waver of uncertainty. “We’re here, Lord Artain, so give us the rest of the game guidelines.”

Artain points to the bellringer’s post, visible on the castle’s rooftop. “When the bellringer signals Seventh Hour, the hunt will begin. You, my little fawn, may scamper about anywhere within the boundaries of Vollen Forest. One hour head start. At Eighth Hour’s chime, Lord Basten and I will set out from the farthest points of Aurora Tower and Hailstrom Tower. The huntsman who captures your pretty little tail and brings you back to this pavilion at dusk wins.”

Sabine nods, adjusting the band of her trousers.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, chewing a damn hole on the inside of my cheek.

Sweat pours down the back of my shirt. My skin prickles with every breeze. I can’t shake the uncanny feeling that’s been plaguing me since making this damn bargain:Something is wrong here.

My brain might not see it, but my senses do.

“And if neither of you catches me by dusk?” She casually tosses back her hair, but she’s sweating as much as I am. On her palms. The back of her neck. Places only I can detect.

“In that unlikely event, the game is forfeit.” Artain shrugs. “A draw.” He laughs mockingly as though he knows that a draw will never happen.

She shoots back with as much derision: “And, what then? We toss a coin to determine the winner?”

“Certainly, if that’s what you like.” He winks.

I interject impatiently, “We’re losing daylight. Everywhere within the forest is fair game?” Out of the corner of my eye, I pick out the tallest trees for easy branches to climb, where I can get a high vantage point to look for Sabine.

“That’s right, Lord Basten. That high ridgeline to thesouthwest, the Ramvik River to the east, the Norhelm road to the northeast. Those are the boundaries.”

I wipe the nervous sweat off my brow, pretending to rake back my hair. Okay, this? I can deal with this. You could give me all the land from the port of Thrassos to the Kravadan border, and Sabine and I would still find each other.

“You’d better hope Vale doesn’t find out about this,” Woudix intones from the pavilion, taking a long toke from the pipe before passing it to Samaur.

“It bears no consequence,” Artain snaps defensively. He rests his hands on his hips, his open leather vest revealing a line of sweat running down his muscles. “When he does learn of it, he’ll be pleased that I found a way to keep his daughter safely in Volkany.”

His nostrils flare. He shades his eyes to look up at the sun. “When will Seventh Hour strike, Samaur?”

“Ten more minutes,” the God of Day answers, lifting the pipe to his lips.

I pull in a deep breath. Trying to get a head start by picking up on scents. Though I’ll admit, it’s hard to focus on game trails with Sabine so achingly close.

Her hand rests just three inches from my own as she scans the forest for her own strategy. It takes all my self-discipline not to brush the back of my hand against hers. The faintest scent of powdered sugar clings to her hair, and it’s so intoxicating that I can’t be blamed for forgetting all about the forest.

I feel confident. Artain has millennia of hunting experience, sure. Oh, and magic. But Sabinewantsme to find her. It’s two against one.

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