Page 3 of The Enemy's Daughter

“Where is he injur—”

Liam slams the doors shut, cutting off my words, then wedges a beam behind the door handles, barring us inside.

“Farron’s not dead.”

“What?” I spin to look at the body—the man—strapped belly-down on the horse.

Liam hurries over and works the rope holding Farron in place. Red-black blood slicks down Hemlock’s rump.

He shoves a hand through his black hair. “I—I couldn’t do it. Your brother knocked Farron off his horse and handed me the knife, but I froze. So Percy stabbed him, then left me with the body. But Farron’s still alive. Or at least he was the last time I checked.”

Stars.If he’s still alive, then Liam isn’t my—

My gaze returns to the blood. The man. Did Liam bring me here to help him finish what Percy started?

Waiting for Farron to be murdered is one thing, but killing... I could never.

The body before me looks no different from the scores of clansmen I’ve mended before, and my thoughts scream to help him. Letting people die isn’t what I’ve spent my whole life studying how to do.

What if I can save him and prevent an all-out war with the Kingsland?

“Untie him.” I throw down my medical bag and push up my sleeves. “Help me get him off the horse.”

Watch your tone.Mum’s reprimand from countless times in my childhood snaps like a rubber band against my mind. A reminder that Liam isn’t Freia or my sibling. Liam is a man.

His jaw flexes, but he nods.

We slide Farron into Liam’s arms, then lower him onto the hay- and dirt-covered ground. A soft moan leaks from the man’s lips.

“I shouldn’t let you do this,” Liam says, rubbing a palm over his square jaw. His dark hair curls boyishly over his forehead, making him look younger than his twenty years. I reach for Farron’s shirt—I have to stop the bleeding—but Liam’s hand slaps over mine and holds tight. “Did you hear me? He’s a terrorist. He needs to die.”

I’ve never heard a more fitting word for Farron. This man has commanded his army to descend on us like wraiths in the night to steal or behead our animals. He’s trained his soldiers to be so savage that the few clan members who’ve survived their torture come back blinded and missing thumbs and forefingers, injuries that prevent them from ever holding a weapon again.

They want what we have and where we live, and they use fear to get it. But their terror doesn’t end with us. Like those under any tyrannical leader, it’s the powerless, mostly women, who are treated no better than slaves. Unquestionably, the world would be a better place without Farron in it. Yet I can’t kill him any more than Liam can. “Liam,” I say, holding his distressed gaze, “open his shirt.”

His nostrils flare and he mutters a curse. Then he lifts his hand from mine, and the sound of fabric tearing fills the air.

For half a heartbeat, I scrutinize the face of our enemy. Farron’s not what I expected—not by a mile. With his pleasant, even handsome features and hair peppered with gray, he looks normal. Human.

It’s unsettling.

Air wheezes from his mouth, snapping me out of my stupor. I drop my ear to his chest to listen.

“There’s so much blood,” Liam says.

It’s true. A two-inch stab wound gapes just above his heart. Bubbles emerge from the pool of blood—his lung is punctured.

“My bag.” I gesture to where I dropped it.

The barn doors rattle, then a fist pounds.

“Why are these doors locked?” Father’s muffled voice demands.

With wide eyes, I look to Liam.

“Ignore him,” he hisses.

That’s a terrible idea, but okay. Unfortunately, Farron takes that moment to cough. Blood flows from his mouth as his upper body convulses, causing a surge to gush from the wound. My hand reaches to stop the bleeding, but as I do, Farron’s eyes open. I freeze as his unfocused gaze fills with confusion. He blinks at the rafters, the log walls, then at me.

---