Page 31 of Trick Me
And maybe that’s more dangerous than anything I’ve ever faced. I glance away before I burn up, taking in the forest.
“Oh!” I spot something glinting in the moonlight, desperate to shift the focus from the ache behind Ash’s eyes. “My shoe!”
It’s one of my heels, somehow miraculously still intact. The strap is caked in mud, and there’s something dark dried across the sole, but it’s there. The other lies a few feet away, looking like a corpse on a battlefield. Fitting, honestly.
Ash stops walking and lowers me to my feet before he crouches and picks them up, turning them over in his hands.
“These are completely impractical.”
“They weren’t meant for running from the undead,” I say. “They are made to make my legs look good.”
His eyes flick up, sharp and unwavering. “Your legs are spectacular without them.”
“You’re flirting with me while holding my shoes?”
“Is it working?”
I only grin as he scoops me back into his arms and keeps on walking. We’re near the edge of the woods now, the cracked stone path ahead with moonlight reflected in pale streaks. He sets me down again and kneels in front of me, still holding the shoes.
“Foot.”
“I can put them on myself.”
“Foot.” That voice. That tone. It’s not a request. It’s a command.
I mutter something under my breath but lift my foot anyway, steadying myself with one hand on his shoulder. He’s warm through the fabric. Solid. My mind flashes back to his body over mine in the trees, breath against my throat, his weight pinning me perfectly.
“Focus,” he murmurs without looking up.
I bite my lip.
He fits the heel gently to my foot, fingers adjusting the strap with far too much precision for a man who can break ribs with a single punch. His thumb brushes against the arch of my ankle. I shiver.
He repeats the process with the other shoe, his hands lingering again. When he finishes, he doesn’t rise. Just stays there. Kneeling in front of me, breathing shallow, jaw tight. The moon highlights the cuts and dried blood on his face.
“We look like hell,” I say, trying to break the quiet. “Me in your oversized jacket, you looking like you got dragged through several levels of monster-infested hell.”
“It’s Halloween,” he says, but the words sound like someone else is speaking through him. “Old tradition said humans wore masks to scare away spirits. We’ll just say these are our costumes. You’re a half-naked forest witch. I’m a warrior who lost a fight with a sentient bramble.”
His head cants slightly, like he’s tracking something only he can sense. His lips move, soundless… There’s a flicker of pain in his expression so sharp it slices through the moment. I feel it like a needle under my skin.
“Who are you talking to? A ghost?” I ask, all too familiar with spirits turning up at the most inopportune times.
He doesn’t look at me, but something shifts, and he stands up from his crouching position. A tension unwinds in his shoulders, his jaw slackening for just a breath before his entire body slumps—like someone cut his strings.
“It’s Mikael in ghost form, my best friend, my second-in-command,” he reveals roughly. “Don’t tell him, but I miss him so fucking much.”
The words splinter on their way out. He presses his fists against his sides, his back bowed as tremorsripple through him. Silent grief, the kind that eats people alive from the inside out.
“I lost a handful of my pack that night,” he mutters. “Mikael was the closest thing I had to a brother. And I let him die.”
“Ash—”
“He called my name while the enemy pack tore him apart,” he says, his voice going dead flat. “And I didn’t go. I stayed where I was. Held the line. Watched him fall.”
Silence stretches between us, the forest holding its breath, as though even the trees know not to interrupt.
“You had to make a choice,” I whisper, reaching for him. “You stayed for the others?—”
