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The village she had seen was south of the castle. She had run…glancing up at the sky, she squinted. East. Turning appropriately, she began to walk. She did not dare leave the woods for now, should Gideon or his servants be patrolling the fields and roads for her.

She did not know if her plan would come to fruition.

She did not know if she would survive come nightfall.

But compared to the monster who married her…

She did not know as she cared.

* * *

Gideon was furious.

To be fair, he was angry mostly with himself. He had slipped on the stairs! How had he slipped on his own stairs? What was he, a child? Marguerite had fled from him—which he supposed was warranted, given his response to her stabbing him—and he had given chase.

He had wished to take his true form. That would have ended the farce quickly and without incident. As a lich, he could have snatched her up from the ground in an instant. But what would happen then, when she saw his real self?

No, he had opted to remain in his human appearance. She was traumatized and shocked enough from the events of the past day. Between summoning Leopold, to…discovering that he was not so very much mortal and instead entirely other.

He had made egregious missteps in dealing with her. He should not have revealed his dark magic so soon, and he certainly should have never allowed her to summon Leopold. His over-eagerness to see her wield magic and accept his nature had led to this.

And then his proverbial misstep had led to a far more physical one. Marguerite was quick. She ran like a jackrabbit through his home. She was smaller than he, lighter on foot, and her house dress did not have enough fabric to slow her down to make up for it.

And he had fallen down his own damn stairs.

By the time he pulled himself up from the heap he had become at the bottom landing, she was already gone into the woods.

Grimacing as he stood on the steps to the castle, he looked off into the woods. He knew Marguerite would not return on her own. She was too stubborn—too strong-willed. She would march off to the nearest village and seek shelter. She was clever enough to know where it had been. She might even make it there before nightfall.

She will stay in the woods. She will know I am tracking her on the roads. He sighed. She is naïve, but she is not a fool.

The villagers feared him, and rightfully so. But they also respected and adored him. As lord of their lands, he was far more benevolent than most. What use had he for their money? He had plenty of his own. Instead of paying him in taxes, he took what he needed in food and wares, which was not much.

They certainly did not complain with the arrangement.

What would they do, however, when his terrified bride arrived on their doorsteps, battered and exhausted? Would they bring her back to him, or would they hide her, secret her away, as their suspicions about his dark nature were finally confirmed?

He could not take that chance.

Letting his human form dissolve, he stretched out as his true self, the shadowy creature that he had become all those many centuries ago. He could not fly—but he certainly could not trip down the damn stairs either.

Mentally kicking himself, he slipped over the grass and toward the woods. He would hunt her. Find her. Bring her back.

Fear over her safety joined his anger and frustration. He was a fool to have let everything twist so far out of his control! He would fetch her, tend to her, lock her away in their room, and woo her back to his side.

She would understand.

She would forgive him.

She would love him.

She must.

* * *

Marguerite decidedshe disliked walking in the woods with no shoes. The fabric around her feet had done a great deal in protecting her from the detritus of the forest floor—but it did little to help the nettles.

Hours passed as she made her way through the trees, always keenly aware of every snap of a twig or rustle of a branch. He will come for me. He will not let me go. The wolf hunts me, even now.