Page 16 of The Warrior and the Monk

Perhaps he wasn’t.

Wilder’s hand flew up before he could think, striking Anders’s bearded cheek with a sharp slap.

The sound echoed in the longhouse. Anders stumbled back, his eyes wide, his expression a mix of shock and something that Wilder couldn’t decipher.

The spoon clattered to the floor as Wilder scrambled backward, his chest heaving. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice trembling with anger and disbelief.

Anders stood frozen, his hand pressed to his cheek, his mouth slightly open as if searching for words that wouldn’t come. The shock on his face mirrored Wilder’s own disbelief. Just as Wilder hadn’t anticipated the kiss, Anders hadn’t expected the slap.

I hit him.

The thought churned in Wilder’s mind, leaving a sick feeling in its wake. He had raised his hand against his lord—a man who had sheltered him, fed him, and taught him how to live in this strange new place. What punishment awaited him for such insolence? Back at the monastery, the monks had spoken of severe consequences for servants who dared to defy their masters. A beating at best, a public shaming—or worse.

Would Anders have him flogged? Would they take his hand? Would his life be forfeit? Wilder imagined the townsfolk gathering to witness his disgrace, jeering as Anders’s judgment was carried out. The image made his stomach turn.

He couldn’t stay to find out.

Panic seized him, raw and overwhelming. Wilder leapt to his feet, his movements jerky and desperate, and bolted for the door. His legs carried him outside before he could register the rain still pouring down in cold, relentless sheets.

Barefoot and trembling, Wilder sprinted across the muddy ground, past the edge of the property and into the forest beyond. He didn’t stop to think about where he was going or how far he could get. He only knew he had to put as much distance between himself and Anders as possible.

Branches snagged at his tunic, thorns raked against his legs, and the slick ground threatened to send him tumbling with every step. Still, he ran, the sound of his own ragged breathing mingling with the rain’s unceasing drumbeat.

His lungs burned, his vision blurred, and his feet stung with every step over rocks and roots. He felt the cold seep into his skin, chilling him to the bone.

Then he slipped.

A sharp cry escaped him as his foot twisted beneath him, and he fell hard onto the wet earth. Mud splattered his tunic and clung to his hands as he tried to brace himself. Pain flared in his ankle, sharp and immediate, and he clutched at it, gasping.

The forest around him seemed to close in, the trees standing like silent sentinels as the rain continued its unyielding assault. Wilder’s breath hitched, a sob escaping his lips as the weight of everything bore down on him.

He was hurt, frightened, and utterly alone.

Chapter Six

The rain poured relentlessly, drumming on the earth and Wilder’s head with a ferocity that left him shivering, his tunic plastered to his skin. He huddled against the tree, the bark rough and unyielding against his back, and tried to ignore the icy rivulets that ran down his face and neck. His ankle throbbed, sharp and insistent, each pulse a cruel reminder of his predicament. He was alone, soaked, and utterly lost in the forest with no plan and no hope of rescue.

The cold burrowed into his bones, but Wilder told himself it was better than the alternative. Better this than Anders's touch, unwanted and unwarranted. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him. He had trusted Anders—or as much as one could trust someone who had taken them against their will. Wilder had believed, foolishly, that their shared labor in the garden and with the animals had made them, if not equals, then at least partners in survival.

But Anders's kiss had shattered that illusion. It had turned everything sour, revealing a truth Wilder now felt foolish for not seeing sooner: Anders had never been his partner. He was a captor, a lord, and Wilder was nothing more than a possession.

I was stupid to think otherwise.

Wilder pressed his hands together, the pads of his fingers numb against his palms. He closed his eyes and prayed, his voice trembling even in the silence of his own mind.

Dear God, in all Your wisdom and compassion, please guide me through this trial. I have tried my best to endure, to make something good of this path, but I am at my limit. Show me the way through this forest. Guide me to safety. Guide me to home—

A crack of branches interrupted his thoughts. Wilder's eyes snapped open, and his breath hitched in his throat.

Anders emerged from the brush, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim, rain-soaked backdrop of the forest. The sight sent Wilder’s heart racing, though not from fear alone. He braced himself, his jaw tightening as he turned his face slightly to the side. He waited, trembling, for Anders to strike him—to return the slap Wilder had delivered in a fit of desperation.

The blow never came.

Instead, Anders knelt before him, his expression unreadable in the gloom. With deliberate care, he unclasped the cloak from his own shoulders and draped it over Wilder’s trembling form. The material, waxed and thick, repelled the rain and trapped what little warmth Wilder still had.

Wilder blinked in confusion, his fingers curling into the cloak’s folds. He peered up at Anders, his vision blurred by both the rain and his own disbelief. He expected anger, retribution, or even smugness at finding him in such a helpless state. But Anders's face—shadowed and glistening with rain—looked nothing like that.

Anders looked sad.

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