Page 5

CHAPTER THREE

T he rhythmic gallop of Tav’s horse pounded beneath them, a living drumbeat echoing the frantic thrum of Agnes’ heart.

They had ridden far from the blood-soaked path, yet the air still carried the chill of danger.

Wind tugged at the damp strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, and the forest blurred around them in a haze of shadows and light.

Every jolt sent a sharp awareness through her—of the strong man behind her, of his arm secure around her waist, of the warmth of his breath near her ear.

She should not have noticed. She should have been thinking of the men, of the blood, of what they had just survived. But the heat of him pressed against her back, the strength of his arm holding her steady—it settled in her like something inevitable.

Still, she held herself rigid, refusing to acknowledge her own reaction, until she felt his grip weakening and his breath hitching against her shoulder.

“Tav,” she said, twisting enough to glance at him. “Ye’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted behind her.

“Ye’re nae.” She didn’t raise her voice, despite wanting to. “We’re stopping.”

He didn’t respond, but the tension in his torso behind her told her enough.

They reached a bend in the road where the trees parted slightly to reveal a thin but clean stream, threading its way between the roots. Agnes grabbed the reins from Tav’s hands, tightened her grip and brought the horse to a halt.

“I said I’m fine,” Tav muttered behind her, his voice rough, strained.

She twisted to face him as much as possible, her glare sharper than the dagger at her hip. “And I said we’re stopping. If ye fall off this horse dead, it’s going tae make getting home a great deal harder fer me.”

His eyes met hers. For a moment, there was a flicker of something that might have been amusement or defiance. But then it passed, and he nodded.

They dismounted, Tav slower than usual, his breath hitching as he pressed a hand to his side. Agnes didn’t miss the way his knuckles whitened, the way his jaw clenched hard enough to crack stone. She moved quickly, scanning the trees for threats, but the forest held its breath around them.

She crouched near the stream, tore a strip from the hem of her dress, and soaked it in the water. Glancing over her shoulder she saw him standing there, watching.

“Take off yer shirt.” Her voice was low, her eyes locking onto his, sharp as a blade’s edge, waiting.

He gave her a look that was part skepticism, part disbelief, but she didn’t waver.

Tav arched a brow. “Bold request.”

“Aye, and if I wanted yer commentary, I’d ask fer it.”She flicked the sopping cloth toward him, droplets scattering like shards of glass in the sunlight.“I can clean the wound. Ye’re nae immortal, though ye clearly fancy yerself close.”

“Could’ve fooled me,”he said dryly, but his fingers went to the bloodied fabric, fumbling the fastenings.

His hands, usually so deft, shook just enough to betray him.

Agnes looked away, suddenly fierce in her study of the stream, the trees,anything but the ragged sound of his breath and the whisper of fabric sliding free.

When she turned back, he had settled on a flat rock near the edge of the stream. Shirt discarded. Skin glistening with sweat and streaked with blood.

And suddenly, breath was something elusive.

His torso was a battlefield of ink and sinew; lean, powerful, and marred with more than just the wound.

It drew her in like a lure, that dangerous allure of something both beautiful and broken.

The play of muscle beneath taut skin was hypnotic.

The way his abs shifted with each controlled breath, slow and even despite the pain, as if his body refused to betray even a flicker of weakness.

His chest was a study in strength and precision, every line carved as if by a blade.

Veins curled up his forearms like vines, thick and prominent, mapping the raw power coiled beneath.

But it was the tattoos that stole her focus.

They sprawled across his collarbone in jagged arcs, dipped over the hard plane of his pectorals, and vanished beneath the waistband of his pants.

Not mere decoration, but rather a story.

Geometric patterns interlaced with savage, angular strokes, the ink so deep it seemed to pulse under the dim light.

Runes, maybe. Or warnings. A history etched into skin, each line a ledger of violence or vow.

One snaked up the column of his throat, its sharp edges grazing his jaw.

Another curled around his ribs, as if something inside him had clawed its way out once and left a trail.

Oh, God.

She should not have been looking. A flush of heat bloomed low in her belly, spreading like wildfire until it burned in her cheeks, her throat, the very fingertips that hovered too close to his skin.

She couldn’t stop her eyes from taking in the way the sunlight caught the sweat-slick planes of his torso, the way his breath hitched just slightly when she leaned in.

She moved to kneel beside him, cloth in hand. Her voice came out a bit too tight, cutting through the thick air between them."Ye're terrible at nae getting stabbed."

A small, rough sound escaped his lips. It was almost a chuckle, though it ended in a wince."I'm usually better at it."

"Aye?"She arched a brow, pressing the cloth to his side with deliberate firmness."Funny, I wouldnae have guessed, judging by this ."

His lips quirked, but he didn’t answer.

"Well, ye're bleeding like a man who's out o' practice,"she continued, but her fingers gentled as she dipped the cloth again. The water ran pink between them. The gash wasn't deep, but it had bled too freely, staining his skin, his clothes, her hands .

Her fingers trembled slightly as she cleaned around the torn edges. Focus, ye fool. But his skin was warm beneath her palm. And when she pressed the cloth to the jagged slice beneath his ribs, he didn't flinch. Didn't even move.

He just watched her. Steady. Unblinking.

She couldn't look at his face. Couldn't bear what she might see there. So she focused on the blood, the water, the way his muscles tensed under her touch… anything but the question burning in her throat.

It fell anyway, heavy as a stone."Why did they come fer us?"

Silence. Then?—

"Maybe they heard ye nagging across county lines,"he muttered."Decided tae put us both out o’ our misery."

She scoffed, but her hands stilled."I’m serious."

Tav was quiet for a long moment.

Then, in a softer voice, “I dinnae ken.”

She looked up sharply. “I think ye dae.”

“I have guesses,” he allowed. “But naething I’d bet me life on. Yet.”

Agnes studied him. The way the light played across the angles of his face.

There were lines around his eyes she hadn’t noticed before.

Tension buried deep in his shoulders, in the way he held himself, as if bracing for something more painful than the wound she was tending.

His jaw was tight. His lips pressed together, like he was holding back more than words.

“Tell me anyway,” she said.

Agnes stilled, waiting for his answer, but he didn’t speak for a while. Her hand lingered just below the jagged wound. She stared at it a moment, then lifted her gaze to Tav.

He sat motionless, his torso half-turned toward her, streaked with blood, water, and the beginning of bruises.

The late sun filtered through the trees, catching the edge of the ink etched into his skin, and higher, down the lean slope of his abdomen.

He was lean in the way only hardened men became, with every inch of him shaped by necessity. Strength without softness.

His breathing was steadier now, but she saw the guarded glint in his eyes.

"Tav," she exclaimed. “I am waiting fer an answer.”

Tav shrugged, his jaw working silently for a moment, then leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

His bare back curved, the cords of his muscles shifting beneath skin.

Scars like pale memories ran across him, hidden before but now laid bare.

Agnes watched his spine flex, the movement disarming her more than it should have.

"One of the men," he said finally, his voice low and rough. "I kent his face."

She felt her stomach drop. "From where?"

"Armstrong's hold."

Her breath hitched. She sat back on her heels, hand still damp with his blood, heart thudding in her chest.

"He was there," Tav continued, glancing toward the trees as though the man might emerge from them again. "Years ago. Just a lad then. But I'd nae forget the eyes. Nae his,” he exhaled slowly, as if breaking out of a daydream. “He was there the night they beat me."

His voice stayed level, but there was a hollowness behind it. As if he were speaking from the mouth of some long-sealed cave.

Agnes reached for the stream again, needing something to do with her hands. Her pulse raced.

"Then ye think Armstrong sent them?"

Tav reached for his shirt, then seemed to think better of it. His ribs were still bleeding, though slower now. He rolled his shoulder, wincing. "It's a strong guess. But what I cannae understand is how."

She wrung out the cloth, frowning. "What d'ye mean?"

"How could they have kent it would be me who rode with ye. That wasn't planned till this mornin’. They couldnae have known."

She looked at him fully now. His brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed with the sharp glint of thought. He was trying to make sense of a game played in shadow.

"Maybe they didnae care who ye were," she said slowly. "Maybe the plan was always tae take me. And then force my faither tae send ye."

His eyes met hers. For a moment, neither of them moved. Wind stirred the trees overhead. The stream whispered below.

"That," he said, "would make sense. But it still feels wrong."

"Wrong how?"

He sat back, spine touching the tree trunk behind him. "It felt rushed. And clumsy. Like it was meant tae scare more than succeed. They had us cornered and still botched it."

Agnes nodded slowly. She felt the truth of it, even if she couldn’t name why. The whole thing had unspooled too fast. Too loud.

"So what now?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Tav glanced at the darkening sky. "We ride back. We'll reach yer faither by midday tomorrow. Faster without the carriage."

She nodded. "And when we get there?"

"Then I’ll tell him what I saw. What I suspect. And he decides what comes next."

Agnes pressed the cloth to the wound one last time. The bleeding had mostly stopped, though the edges looked angry and raw. Her fingers brushed the ink over his skin again, tracing, unintentionally, a long, looping design curling down his side. She pulled her hand back quickly.

"Ye're all set now," she murmured.

He didn’t move.

Her gaze lingered. The sun caught the definition in his abdomen, every lean line of muscle. She knew she shouldn’t be staring. but her body was betraying her.

The heat that had simmered low in her chest since they had dismounted was now a steady burn, coiling low in her belly. She hated it. Hated how close he was, the way the sight of his bare torso had lodged itself in her throat like a swallowed ember.

"We should go," she said. The words came out thinner than she wanted.

Tav nodded. He reached slowly for his shirt, pain etched into every movement. She turned away as he pulled it back over his head, but the image of him bare and bloodied, beautiful and battered, stayed behind her eyes like an imprint.

He stood. Swayed once. She reached to steady him on instinct.

"I'm fine," he said. Not harshly.

"Ye're nae," she answered, holding his arm until the moment passed.

They approached the horse, already restless. Tav checked the girth with a quiet efficiency. His hands, though slower, still worked with practiced ease. She watched the way he moved, the control in every gesture. Even injured, he moved like he was ready to fight again.

He helped her mount first, heat rushing the moment his hands met her waist. He then mounted behind her, his chest flushed against hers.

He shifted, adjusting around her, arm coming around to grip the reins. His other hand settled lightly at her waist. For balance, not want, but the heat spreading through Agnes’ body made it impossible not to consider the option.

It branded her.

The forest was a blur again as they rode. The sun had fallen far enough to bathe the world in amber. Shadows stretched, long and reaching. The rhythmic pounding of hooves filled the silence between them.

Agnes leaned slightly forward, trying not to feel the heat of him behind her. It was impossible. Every breath he took brushed the back of her neck. Every slight shift reminded her of the body beneath his clothes.

She wanted to think of something else. Anything else.

But all she could hear was his voice, low and rough: "He was there the night they beat me.

" What had they done to him? She had never asked.

Had never truly known. But now she had seen his scars.

The ones on his body, and the ones hidden deeper still.

They rode for an hour before he spoke again.

"Ye fought well today," he said suddenly.

The words startled her.

She didn’t know how to answer. "I was lucky."

"Ye were quick. And smart. That's more than luck."

She glanced over her shoulder. "Is that yer way o’ saying thank ye?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. "Maybe."

She smiled too, then faced forward again. Each bump of the trail pressed her against him. Each curve in the path made him shift closer.

She closed her eyes.

She should have been afraid of whoever had sent those men. But in that moment, she only felt the steady thrum of his heart behind her.

And the way her own answered.