Page 43 of The Blood that Binds Us

I amnota bag of flour.

I smash my fists against his back like hammers, willing my magic to singe his skin, forcing him to drop me, but he continues walking, unphased. And then I feel it. The slight hum buzzing around him—he shrouded himself with a protective ward the second he picked me off the ground.

“I swear to the gods, you put me down right now or I am frying your ass the second you let me go.”

Sin ignores my protests and acts as if my fists now wailing into his back are no more than drops of rain hitting his shirt, but I know that’s not true. I may not be a large woman, but being punched repeatedly in the same spot has to hurt.

When we’re back at the horses, he sets me on my feet and immediately holds up his hand as if to caution me from sending my fist flying into his face.

“There was blood being shed. I couldn’t risk you losing control and giving away who you are. I needed to get you out of there.”

My face twists into a scowl. “You listen to me. You don’t know a damn thing about me or what I can and cannot control. I don’t need you rushing in every time someone gets a damn papercut, and Icertainlydon’t need you fighting my battles for me. That’s not the first time a man has made a crude remark in my direction, and it won’t be the last. But itwillbe the last time you ever stand between me and them like some godsdamned savior.”

He throws his hand through his hair, sending it rippling out behind him and falling in uneven layers.

I take a step towards him and jab my finger into his stupid, hard chest. “And whatever nonsense you were spewing aboutclaiming me,you can forget that too.”

Sin grabs my hand and lowers it to my side, gently but with enough force I can’t resist. “Whether you care to admit it to yourself or not, the second I put that heart on your pretty hip, you became mine. And I do not take kindly to others touching my things.”

“I am not a thing, Singard.”

“You are what I say you are,” he spits, heat now flaring in his irises.

The sudden shift in his tone unsettles me, and I instantly forget whatever I was about to say. Tears burn in my eyes, and I look away. They’re not tears of sadness, and I don’t want him thinking his words have that effect on me. No. They’re tears of rage. And as one leaps from my eye, I vow to myself that I will find a path to freedom. Never again will I be reduced to what someone else labels me as.

I untether my horse from the post and heave my leg over her as I settle into the saddle. Forcing myself to look back at Sin, I shake my head, and in a tone that could bring death to her knees, I say, “Wren. My name is Wren.”

And with that, I urge my mare into a gallop, and we storm back up the hill.

He doesn’t follow.

Ihate the Rut.

My temples pound like someone is beating on war drums inside my head, pieces of my knotted hair glued to my cheeks with sweat from riding home in the afternoon sun. I’m never drinking again.

The five of us have been mostly quiet—Eldridge too hungover, and Zorina and Theon too tired to be much for conversation. And I’m too pissed at Sin to even look in his direction. He hasn’t uttered a single word to me all day as we make our trek back to the cabin.

As he shouldn’t.

He knows I’ll cut his godsdamned tongue out if he tries.

* * *

The Black Art and I are leaving at first light. Our saddle bags are packed, and I set out my clothes for tomorrow on the foot of my bed so I don’t wake the others by rummaging around in my trunk. I’ve already said my goodbyes to my family. All except one.

I find Eldridge alone by the dying fire, watching as the final embers suffocate in the pit. He doesn’t startle when I place my hand on his back. It’s impossible to sneak up on any of my family with their advanced hearing.

I wrap both my arms around him from behind, my hands barely able to reach far enough to interlock my fingers against his stomach. Pressing my forehead to his back, I inhale his signature scent—worn-in leather and spice. He’s tense under my touch, but after a moment, he blows out an exaggerated sigh and reaches up to hold my forearm against him. We stay like this for a long while, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking.

We don’t need to.

We never have.

* * *

“If we keep riding, we’ll make it before the brunt of the storm,” Sin says, eyes on the clouds now darkened and fattened with rain.

We’re still a few hours out from Scarwood, and that’s counting on us not stopping to relieve ourselves or our horses. And given we’ve only stopped one time several hours ago, and for a few minutes at that, we need to break.

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