Page 205 of Evil Hearts

My duty ensures that I am wounded often enough to require a shelter on the forest floor, and with no small amount of pain and a phenomenal lack of grace, I curl into the small burrow dug into the roots of an oak. The shelter is small and cramped. A rigged oil tarp forms the entrance, hung from a taut line so I can sweep to the side. Two woven reed walls form the head and the foot, jutting roughly three feet from the tree. The rest is matted down by my years of use, with hollows and depressions formed around the curves of my body from the time I have spent here injured.

I have no blankets or pillows, just my shelter, stolen clothes, and dirt. The lack of comfort is by design. Sleeping on the ground leaves me too exposed, and as I only use this shelter when I am injured, I am not only exposed but at a considerable disadvantage. Should I need to flee, blankets and pillows would only slow me down. Those I keep in a chest on my sleeping platform, high in the trees where I am safe. This shelter is a utilitarian space used for an express purpose.

As such, by the time dawn breaks, I feel as though I have been run over by a wagon train. My leg aches, though the wounds have begun healing thanks to my visit to the witch, and my dreams left me restless, filling my head with scents and sounds that are not there: soft breaths and foreign howls, the padding of feet around my shelter, and the comforting aroma of orange blossom.

The fact that I dream is more unsettling than my injury and sheltering on the ground combined—I should not have been able to sleep deeply enough to dream in the first place.

Odder still is that when I wake, I smell bacon.

My stomach growls, and I give in, brushing the oiled tarp aside.

“Hello,” the girl says. She sits on a nearby fallen log, her cloak settling about her shoulders and dripping over her legs as though she sits in a pool of blood. A hand rests on the woven handle of a wicker basket, steam rises from the checkered towel thrown over the top, and my stomach rumbles again. “Did you sleep well?”

I let the tarp fall, obscuring her from view, and drop onto my back, palming my face and groaning into my hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“I am not.”

It is quiet for a beat, and in the stretch of silence, my traitorous stomach growls a third time.

“I heard that.” The basket creaks, and pine straw snaps beneath her feet. A moment later, my tarp is swept aside. She crowds into my tiny shelter, pulling the tarp tightly closed. “I did not want to wake you, but as I am sure you know, it is dangerous to linger in the woods with food.”

“If you know that, why are you here?”

“Because you are injured, and you need to eat.” At that, she flips the checkered towel back to reveal a bundle of bacon and a pile of what my nose tells me are freshly baked sausage rolls. “I did not know what you would prefer, so forgive me if I am wrong. I—” She presses her lips together, the plush lower one pushed out in a pout. “I followed my own stomach.”

Grabbing a sausage roll with two fingers, she holds it out to me. I take it, careful of the delicate, buttery crust. She selects a piece of bacon for herself and sits with her knees hugged to her chest, nibbling and watching me expectantly.

With some effort, I sit up and twist to face her. My injured leg stretches the length of the burrow, and I cannot help that my calf presses against her hip.

“Thank you,” I mumble before taking a bite. The flaky crust bursts against my lips and teeth. Salt and herbs explode on my tongue a half second before the savory, fatty sausage rolls my eyes back in my head. I swallow the bite along with my groan, shoving the rest of the roll into my mouth. Only when I reach for a second one do I realize she is staring at me. Embarrassed and unsure why, I withdraw and stare at my knee.

“Please.” She nudges the basket closer. “Have as many as you like; we baked them for you.”

“We?”

“My grandmother and I.” The basket slides an inch closer. “She lives deep in the wood. When I told her what happened, she demanded we bring you some food.”

“No one lives in the wood.” Except for me, the witch, and the monsters. I narrow my eyes at her, but the girl is unbothered. “Do you mean the village at the other end of the path?”

She shrugs and makes a move with her head that is caught between a nod and a shake. “Near enough. Now eat.” She stretches a leg to nudge the basket with her foot. With how she had sat and hugged her knees, the move pins her skirt in placeand reveals a stretch of smooth skin above her boot. I fight to pull my eyes away and keep them on her face, the basket, the tarp. Anywhere but at the enticing curve of her calf. “Everyone knows you must eat to heal.”

The basket slides right up to my hand, and she leaves her leg pressed against mine. Her foot rests against my thigh, delicate compared to the muscle and sturdiness I boast.

Unable to speak and even less able to evaluate the heat this contact has lit in my belly, I grab a second sausage roll. A third. Shoveling one after another in my mouth. It has been ages since I had a villager-cooked meal and even longer since it was freshly baked and warm. I swear I can feel the so-called healing properties in every bite, and soon, my belly is full, my limbs loose, and I’ve eased back onto my elbows, fighting the urge to close my eyes and sleep.

“You should rest,” she says, watching me intently from her end of my burrow. “I will keep watch.”

“There are monsters in the woods.” The words are thick on my tongue, as though I had downed a dozen pints at the tavern.

“That there are,” she says, resting her hand lightly on my shin. The sudden contact zings into my bones. I watch in shock as she curves her fingers around my calf. Her gaze drops to where she touches me, thoughtful and somewhat lost. She strokes my leg, a sad smile tugging the corner of her mouth. It is all I can do to remain still. Despite my injury and the sleepiness brought on by the meal, I want to reach out for her leg and do the same.

“You should leave, little hood,” I say instead.

She turns her wrist, trailing the backs of her fingers up my leg as if she knew doing so with her palm would rub my dense fur the wrong way. Instead, her touch is soft and soothing. Lulling and arousing at once.

“Czerwony,” she says. “If you need something to call me, you should call me Czerwony.”

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