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CHAPTER SIX

T he morning had broken like a blade across the sky.

Tav felt the coldness in his chest first. This was not simple. It was the most mentally and physically straining mission he had ever been on, and yet the most alluring one. They had left just after dawn, slipping from the edge of the keep like smoke.

The route was crueler this time, less forgiving. But safer, at least in theory. No open road, no flatland where a man could be taken down with a well-placed arrow. Only dense forest, ravines, and narrow paths that wound like veins through the hills. He knew every inch of them. Had bled on them.

And now he would lead her through them.

Agnes rode beside him, quiet and pale under her cloak, the weight of her satchel pressing lightly against her back. Her posture was proud as ever, but her eyes flicked often to the tree line. Good. She was paying attention.

They rode all day without a word. It wasn’t awkward. He’d never been a man of endless talk. Words were tools to him, like a whetstone or a good blade. You used them when they were needed, no more. She didn’t seem to mind. Her silence matched his. Her gaze kept up with his pace.

She had good instincts. And she was beautiful—too beautiful.

God, she was perfect . He’d seen beautiful women before, in courts and taverns alike. But Agnes was not like them.

She burned him .

He hated himself for noticing. Hated the pull in his gut every time her knee brushed against the side of his leg when their horses drew close on a narrow bend.

He shoved it down. This was a mission. And she was not his.

When they reached the village just past dusk, he found himself clenching his jaw when two men outside the tavern turned their heads to watch her dismount.

He was off his horse before she’d even touched the ground, standing too close, offering his hand as if she needed it.

She took it anyway. Her fingers were cold. Her palm small against his.

He didn’t let go right away.

The innkeeper looked them up and down when they entered—Tav with his traveling cloak, sword at his hip, blood still dried in the seams of his boots; Agnes with her hood drawn, cloak a bit too fine for a common traveler, though dust had already begun to cling to the hem.

“We’ll need a room,” Tav said. His voice came out lower than intended.

“One?” the innkeeper asked.

Tav didn’t blink. “Aye. Me and me wife.”

He felt her flinch beside him. The tension that stilled her breath, the question that lingered behind her eyes as she turned toward him. She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, but he did not look back.

The innkeeper grunted and handed over a key.

They climbed the narrow stairs in silence.

His palm still burned from where hers had been.

He knew she had questions. And he didn’t blame her.

He’d lied without telling her first. But he didn’t regret it.

One room raised fewer questions. A husband and wife drew less interest than a guarded woman with a sword-slung man.

They’d pass through the village unnoticed that way.

That was the story. That was the truth. The rest? He wasn’t sure what to call it.

The door closed behind them with a dull click.

The noise barely echoed in the small inn room, yet it felt final, like the thud of a drawn blade. The room was clean enough. A single bed. A small hearth. One basin. Agnes stepped in and removed her cloak slowly, carefully, folding it as though she needed something to do with her hands.

He set the sword against the far wall and rolled his shoulders. The day’s ride had left a knot between them. He felt older than sixty—like every year of blood and bone had settled in behind his collar.

Tav lingered by the wall for a moment, jaw tight.

Agnes stood just ahead of him, her back to the hearth, half in shadow.

She’d removed her cloak, but this time it lay forgotten on the foot of the bed, her hands clasped at her waist in a way that didn’t suit her.

She was too proud for that kind of nervousness.

He knew what was coming.

“I imagine ye had yer reasons,” she said at last, voice low and measured. “But I would like tae ken them.”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. That made it worse somehow. Her tone was calm, but the stiffness in her spine gave her away. She was trying not to be offended. He crossed the room slowly, his footfalls heavy on the old wooden planks.

“It’s a cover,” he said eventually. “It’s protection.”

She turned her head then. He caught her profile in the firelight—the stubborn angle of her chin, the delicate tension that lived between her brows.

He always noticed too much when it came to her.

Noticed things he shouldn’t. Like the way the firelight gilded the strands of her hair.

The way her chest rose and fell, too carefully, like she was keeping her breath under command.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Kept his voice steady.

“If people believe we’re married, they assume ye’re just another traveler.

They dinnae look too closely. Nay titles, nay questions.

A married woman on the road with her husband daesnae raise alarms. But if they see ye fer what ye are—a noblewoman traveling alone with a man like me—then they start tae wonder. ”

Agnes met his gaze. Her eyes were clear, sharp. “And if they wonder?”

He didn’t blink. “Then they follow. And if they follow, they might try their luck.”

She didn’t need the rest of the explanation. She was intelligent enough to see the edges of danger. But he gave it to her anyway.

“There are people out there who would kill ye just fer the chance tae ransom ye. Others who wouldnae bother with ransom at all. Ye have nae idea how valuable ye are tae the wrong sort o’ man. Especially kenning that we have already escaped death from them once.”

She stepped forward. Just a half step, but it changed something in the air between them.

“And what are ye, then?” she asked, quietly. “Tae them?”

He knew what she meant.

What dae they see when they look at ye? What dae they assume, hearing ye claim me as yers?

Tav looked away for a second, jaw working, the question caught somewhere in his chest.

“A dangerous man with something tae protect,” he said finally.

She didn’t argue with that.

He watched her exhale slowly, the tension in her shoulders loosening but not vanishing. Her fingers brushed over the side of the bedpost absently. She was thinking.

“Ye’re angry,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Dae I seem angry?”

“Ye seem… restrained.”

Her lips twitched, but not in amusement. “Is that such a crime?”

“Nay,” he said softly. “But it’s hard tae watch.”

She looked up at him again. And something shifted.

“I’m nae angry,” she said. “I was startled. That’s all.”

He didn’t quite believe her. But he didn’t press.

There was too much else coiled in his chest.

He moved to the hearth and picked up his pack, checking the weight of it, counting supplies with his fingers. He needed something to do before he gave in to the gnawing ache of being near her like this.

“We’ll need more fer the ride ahead,” he said, turning away from her. “Bread, water, something dried if we’re lucky. I’ll go see what I can find.”

She stepped forward again. “Let me come with ye.”

“Nay.” His answer was swift. Too swift.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Tav?—”

“Nay,” he said again, slower now, more controlled. He turned toward her fully. “Ye stay here.”

She bristled. “I can carry things just as well as?—”

“This isnae about carrying things,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “It’s about safety. Ye walk out that door with your face uncovered, and someone will notice ye.”

“And if I cover it?”

He took two long strides across the room until he stood directly in front of her, looking down into her face, her defiance, her fire.

“If ye cover yer face,” he said, “they’ll wonder what ye’re hiding.”

He reached out without thinking, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. The gesture was small. Her skin was soft beneath his callused fingers.

She froze, breath hitching. She didn’t step back.

“Ye are nae safe here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And I cannae be in two places at once. I need tae ken that when I leave this room, ye willnae step outside o’ it.”

She looked up at him, eyes searching his face like she could see straight through the layers he wore. She didn’t speak.

“Promise me,” he said.

Still no answer.

Finally, her voice came, low and rough. “I promise.”

He exhaled, the knot in his chest loosening by a hair. He stepped back before he could change his mind. He grabbed his cloak and sword, strapping the blade to his side.

“I willnae be long,” he said, opening the door.

Her voice stopped him. “Tav.”

He turned. She looked small. The firelight cast her in gold.

“I’m nae angry,” she said again, softer now. “Just… unprepared.”

He nodded and with that, he stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Tav rubbed the back of his neck, pacing the edge of the hallway just outside the inn.

The air was cool against his skin, but it did little to steady the heat simmering in his blood.

It had seemed like a smart choice at the time—one room, one key, fewer eyes watching her movements, no questions from the innkeeper. It meant he could keep her safe.

But how in the hells was he supposed to endure it?