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There’s blood on the snow. Clean as a bullet , Magnus said, and he wasn’t wrong. It’s a straight slash through the fabric of my coat, the shirt beneath it, the skin now slit apart and gaping.

I reach up and touch my throat. It’s wet. No, my fingers are wet, but the skin of my throat is whole.

I see again the brown flank of the deer. The orange vest. Connor, seeing me. The arrow releasing, so fast my eye barely registered it before the tug at my arm. No. No, he released the arrow before he saw me. Didn’t he? It was an accident.

Wasn’t it?

Connor is shouting and charging toward me, and I’m still standing here waiting to feel the pain.

“Theo! Theo, are you all right?”

The deer. Connor, loosing the arrow. Connor, eyes widening as he sees me.

He catches my hand.

“Theo?” he says. “Talk to me.”

The deer. Connor, eyes widening as he sees me.

Connor, loosing the arrow.

“She’s in shock,” someone says. “Put pressure on that. Sit her down.” Nick.

Connor wraps a hand around my upper arm, and suddenly the pain is there, lancing hot as a brand, and with it comes searing panic. I shove away from Connor, stumbling back. He saw me, he let go, he let go, he saw me—

“Theo—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Connor is stammering. I feel woozy. I start to sway.

“For fuck’s sake,” Nick says. He steps past Connor and catches me under my good arm. “Sit down before you pass out.”

His voice is cold and firm—almost angry. I let my legs fold and practically fall to the ground. The impact jars my arm. I let out a hiss of pain, which Nick ignores, kneeling down to peel apart the shredded edges of my sleeve to look at the wound.

“Nasty, but it didn’t get muscle,” he says. “You need stitches.” Up close, I can see every detail of his face. The scruff of his beard. The tiny scar under his left eye. “Come on. Let’s get you to the UTV.”

Connor moves toward me. To help, probably, but I shy away. Connor flinches. Hurt. He’s not allowed to be the one who’s hurt , I think, and I cling to Nick’s offered arm instead. He hauls me upright. I’m still woozy. Blood loss or shock, I can’t tell, but my whole body is shivering.

“Are you going to take her to the hospital?” Connor asks.

“The nearest hospital is over an hour away, and then you’re sitting around for god knows how long,” Nick says.

“Datura,” I say through chattering teeth. Get me out of here.

“No sense in going down the mountain and trying to scare up a doctor when you’ve got one right here. I’ll get her stitched up. We’ve got the supplies,” he says, hustling me along.

They won’t let you leave , I think, and fear flushes through me.

“Everything okay here?” a voice says. Nick pulls up short.

Mr. Vance stands between the trees, a dark gray cap jammed over his unruly hair. For once, he doesn’t have Duchess with him. Nor does he have a bow—he’s carrying a rifle, the strap over his shoulder. He grips the strap with one hand. They have trouble with poachers, I remember. Mr. Vance tries to scare them off.

“Theo decided to impersonate a deer,” Nick says. I can’t say I particularly appreciate the attempt at humor. “We’re taking her up to the lodge.”

Mr. Vance rubs his chin. “Well. Lucky it wasn’t worse, I suppose.”

“We’d better get moving,” Nick says pointedly.

“Does Mr. Dalton know?” Mr. Vance asks, obviously speaking about Magnus. There’s something odd in his expression. What is he doing out here?

“Why don’t you go find him?” Nick suggests tightly.

“I could take the girl up the mountain for you,” Mr. Vance says.

“She needs medical care. Unless you’re a doctor, you’re not much use,” Nick snaps, and then he moves, ushering me along. He keeps a hand on my elbow—on the uninjured side—and though I don’t actually need help walking, I’m not sure I would remember to keep moving forward without it.

We leave Mr. Vance behind. He stands there, watching, not moving. Connor follows us, but he’s lagging, his face blanched with shock.

Images play through my head on repeat. I keep picturing the hole in the side of the deer we dressed, imagining it transposed on my rib cage. Remembering that flash of gray metal among the trees and the image of myself reflected for an instant in the dark of the deer’s wild eye.

It was an accident , I tell myself. But part of me refuses to believe it—the part that knows what the deer knows. That I am prey. And prey is never safe.