Page 10 of Fortress of Blood and Power

“Garrick.” What would I do if he was killed? It struck me fully then how vulnerable I was, how dependent I was on having a guide and protector in this strange and dangerous kingdom. I couldn’t cower behind wards in this cabin forever, but I knew without any experience in defending myself, without any clue how the magic I supposedly possessed might work to help me, without any hunting or survival skills, I would perish if left on my own.

Or the king and queen would find me.

I squeezed my fingers into fists to stop their trembling. If I thought living with Charles and his resentment and malice had been stifling, I couldn’t fathom what life would be like as a slave or captive to the cruel, bloodthirsty fae. If they even let me live, they would ensure I suffered and served them all my days. I’d already felt trapped for the past year. I would not be trapped again.

I will die before I am their prisoner.

The doorknob rattled, and my heart leapt into my throat. Another chill snaked down my spine.“Florentia, open the door.”

The voice sounded like Garrick’s, but I knew better. My skin prickled and I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that this didn’t mean the blood had belonged to the fae shifter. If he was dead, it was my fault. He’d chosen to protect me.

And it meant I was doomed, that his efforts had been in vain.

A thump shook the door, and I scrambled back. Ice crackled beneath my feet, frost tracing delicate patterns along thewoodwork. What if this creature knew of ways to break the wards placed upon the cabin? What if the wards couldn’t hold forever?

Clenching my teeth, I strode toward the wall and wrenched the smallest blade from its hooks, drawing it slowly from its sheath. Its hilt was marked with the silhouette of a wolf against a full moon, and the knife was perfectly polished, gleaming in the dim room. If the dullahan broke down the door, maybe I could plunge this blade into its chest—or into one of those glowing eyes in its severed head—and run.

The blade shook in my hand. I was a seamstress, a creator. I was quiet Florentia, the young woman who strove for peace and evaded conflict and masked her grief over the cruel rumors about her. I wasn’t a fighter.

Another slam made the door quake and groan. I swallowed and squeezed the blade until my fingers ached. In the stillness, I prayed to the gods for protection. I glanced toward the bed, wishing I could hide beneath it but knowing that would be foolish. The dullahan would find me easily. There was no hiding in this little cabin.

There was a muffled groan and more thumps, but the knob stopped rattling. Garrick’s gruff voice came again.

“Starlight!” He was panting, like he was hurt.

Starlight.

I charged for the door, unbolting the lock and flinging it open. A gust of icy wind billowed within the cabin, raising gooseflesh on my bare legs and brushing silver strands of hair across my face. Garrick stood hunched in the entryway, a shapeless heap in the glade behind him. Blood gleamed on the blade he clutched.

Staggering back, I scanned Garrick’s pale, taut face.

“Are you hurt?”

He swayed on his feet, and I caught sight of scarlet dotting his shirt front. “Bolt the door,” he said, pushing into the cabin and striding toward a cabinet. Rifling through it, he withdrew a bag with bandages and vials protruding from the top. He dropped it on the table.

Securing the door, I turned to find his back to me. His shirt was shredded, revealing bloody gashes in his skin. With a stifled groan, he plucked his shirt over his head and leaned against the table. My foolish eyes, unused to seeing so much bare skin, traced the muscled planes of his back until my throat went dry. The cold that had enveloped me earlier disappeared, melting with the warmth spreading through my chest and across my cheeks.

Shaking my head to clear it, I approached the table. Unfortunately, that vantage didn’t help, as his toned chest and golden skin were just as distracting.

“Ren.” Garrick’s serious tone and use of my name jolted me to attention. My eyes darted up to his. “Are you squeamish?” he asked.

“I hardly know.”

“Well,” he muttered with a crooked smile, “you haven’t fainted at the sight of my blood yet, so that’s a start.” He nodded to his bag of medical supplies, pulling out a roll of gauze and what appeared to be a sewing kit. “I need your help. I heard your townspeople talking about how you sew your own dresses.”

I frowned in confusion.

“I need you to stitch my wounds.”

I lifted the kit, pulling out the needle and thread and gaping at them. “Your skin is hardly like fabric...”

“Please,” Garrick ground out, leaning heavily against the table. “I need you to help me clean the wounds and stitch them closed to prevent future infection. I can’t very well stitch my own back.”

“All right,” I said, my voice firmer and more confident than I felt.

Under Garrick’s instructions, I gathered water from the pump in the washroom and clean cloths. Garrick tossed another log on the fire, making the flames rise and flooding the room with better light for my work. He stretched out upon the table, instructing me on how to pour an antiseptic over his wounds and start to stitch them closed. I willed my hands to stop shaking. To distract myself, I began to talk.

“Why didn’t you transform into a wolf to stop the dullahan?” I asked, threading the needle and starting to work on his back. His breaths remained steady, a soothing rhythm I tried to concentrate on, rather than let myself shudder at the way his skin resisted each tug. As much as I tried to pretend I was working with fabric, every pull of the thread reminded me I was working on flesh, and my stomach turned. The only benefit to my discomfort was that it banished any feelings of awkwardness. I couldn’t be scandalized by the amount of male skin I was touching when I was focused on my work, and I was too desperate for the distraction of conversation to feel shy about prodding Garrick with more questions.

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