Page 41 of Through the Wicked Wood

“If we stay close together, keep our wits about us, we’ll make it through. I have no doubts.”

“Don’t you think you should have told Sam your plan? Clearly, she’s upset,” I say, resting my head back on Sorin’s chest. I have given up all attempts at keeping distance between the two of us and right now any bit of comfort is worth more than my pride.

“If I told her the way we were going, she wouldn’t have come, and we need her with us.” His voice sounds tired, and half of me wishes I could comfort him, while the other half is frustrated that he withheld a part of the plan from all of us. All but Galen it would seem.

“Well,” I say through a yawn, “it sounds to me like she has every right to be concerned.” His silent reply is an indication that the topic of conversation is over. Too exhausted to push it any further, we ride the rest of the day in silence.

* * *

The sunset casts a pale pink glow to the horizon, airy wisps of purple scatter across the trees leaving me breathless as I watch the changing hues. Setting up camp in a small clearing, I’m impressed we managed to make it this far on the first day of riding. Though, the ache in my legs tells me this kind of stamina won’t last long. Sam has remained silent as she tends to the horses while I build a fire. She and Sorin haven’t looked at each other since this morning and the tension creates an ache in my stomach.

With Sorin hunting with his bow for dinner, Sam joins Jarek at a nearby creek to try their hand at fishing. Settling around the makeshift fire pit to indulge in a bit of silence before their return, I stretch my limbs over the flames. Only, it doesn’t last long before Galen’s cold energy looms over my shoulder.

“Do you need something?” I snap unintentionally, glancing up at him. I don’t mean to be so curt, but my mind itches for solitude after a day spent practically glued to Sorin’s chest.

“I do, actually,” he says. Standing to face him, I toss a stick to the fire and wait. “Sorin’s been through a lot,” he says, peering down at me with blue eyes as cold as ice. “He wears his heart on his sleeve and like the true romantic he is, he’s been known to put everything on the line for people who may not deserve it.”

Taking a step back, my tone is intentional this time as I hiss through my teeth. “What are you implying?” I’m not sure if I’m upset that Galen doesn’t think I deserve Sorin’s attention or upset that he assumes we are more than friends in the first place. But are we more than friends?

“Whatever is going on between the two of you,” he steps closer, placing his hands in his pants pocket, “just know that it won’t last. He has bigger plans than this one, and the last thing he needs is a distraction from them. I don’t mean any disrespect, I’m just trying to set your…expectations.”

Grinding my teeth, I square my shoulders as I step closer. Galen appears to be the kind of person who takes immense pleasure preying on the weak, and I will not be his next victim.

“I appreciate your concern, Galen.” I brush a bit of dirt from his shoulder, and he recoils away from my touch. “But I’m old enough to manage my own expectations.” Smirking, I take a few steps backward before turning and heading to my tent.

Chapter 22

Elora

My hair is slick with sweat as we ride into Wickersham the next evening. The late summer sun is brutal and no breeze has graced us since yesterday. As Sorin takes Amis to the stable, I peel off my wool cloak, grimacing at how my shirt underneath sticks to my skin. We’ve been riding for two days and already I miss the comforts of Loxley. I curse myself silently for how low my tolerance has become. Only two weeks ago I was living in a cabin alone, and now I can’t stand a bit of sweat on my shirt.

With the horses tied off, the five of us head towards town in search of a few rooms for the night and a meal. I send a silent prayer to the Mother, hoping by some miracle Wickersham hasn’t been affected by the blight as bad as Copenspire and the rest of the coastal cities.

The wood slab that reads Mahaffey’s Pub hangs slightly crooked, the hinges rusted and barely functional. I’m surprised at how loud my stomach growls with the promise of food. On instinct, I mask the color of my eyes, hiding their golden glow, before entering the pub.

Inside, the sound of drunkards laughing fills the air. The floor is sticky beneath my boots and a pungent aroma of sweat and ale makes me cover my nose and mouth as we move further into the pub. We pass a lone barkeep who stands behind a long, honey colored countertop pouring ample amounts of dark ale into much-too-large tankards.

Sorin leads us to a dark wooden booth in the back corner of the pub before he and Jarek turn to approach the bar. Piling my hair into a high knot to keep it off my neck, my eyes rake over the establishment. The pub consists of several round wooden tables, a few scattered in the middle, and two large ones in either corner. A wooden bench lines the wall where our booth is placed. Once my hair is secured, I slide into the booth while Sam takes a seat in the chair opposite me. Oil lit lanterns line the walls offering light to the room and despite the lack of windows, it’s pleasantly cool, almost as if being underground.

My eyes catch on Sorin as he shakes hands with the barkeep. “Do they know each other?” I ask Sam as she hangs her cloak on the back of her chair. She glances over her shoulder briefly before redirecting her gaze to me. I realize then, she hasn’t masked her eyes. Their flame-like color burns brightly in the pub, and I can’t understand why she hasn’t taken the necessary precaution to shield herself.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s Park Mahaffey, he owns this place. We’ve done business here before, many years ago and as of recently, just started again. Besides, Sorin’s not someone people often forget.” She winks before reclining back in her chair. “Glad to get out of that damn heat for a few minutes.”

I can’t help but agree. I dare a quick glance to Galen who has said nothing since we sat down. His eyes remain focused on a piece of parchment, and I don’t bother making conversation. As Sorin and Jarek make their way back to our table with hands full of ale, Galen excuses himself to see about any rooms at the inn next door.

“Not much for socializing, is he?” I ask, grabbing a tankard from Sorin and taking a sip. When the ale hits my tongue, it isn’t quite warm but definitely not cold. I’ve only ever had the huckleberry wine from Loxley, and I can tell by one sip of the ale, I much prefer the wine.

Sam tips her head back in laughter. “Absolutely not. Galen is the complete opposite of Sorin in that regard.”

“Never has been social, I imagine there’s no sense in him changing that now,” Sorin says, scooting closer to me in the booth. “It’s not personal, it’s just who he is.” As much as Galen intimidates me, maybe he and I have more in common than I thought.

As Sorin slides closer, our thighs touch under the table. Heat floods my system and I’m taken back to the night we spent dancing in Loxley. To our game of poker where he watched me undress. To his lips against my skin in his bedroom.

He sets the rest of the tankards in the center of the table and Sam snatches one, taking a deep gulp, clearly unphased by the taste and temperature. Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her dark brown shirt she places the half empty mug down on to the table.

“Thanks for the ale.” Her voice is sincere but her eyes still narrow in Sorin’s direction.

“Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?” Sorin asks coyly.

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