Page 13 of The Enemy to the Living (The Wild Hunt #2)

Quinn

A sher might be a member of the Hunt, but it’s still a bad idea, isn’t it, to follow him to some unknown place? I should go home. Retreat to the pack house, where I actually think even he can’t get to me.

But my face still feels hot, and it’s not from where I was crying before. No. That touch. His hand on my cheek, grounding me like Sparrow did earlier tonight. Even more so in some ways because Sparrow had to get me to check in, to work for it.

One touch from Asher and I was back with him.

We don’t touch as we make our way through the streets, but he sticks close enough that I feel his body heat and can inhale the smoky scent of him.

I can’t smell his magic—I’m not made that way—but there’s something underneath that I keep catching the faintest hint of.

Part of his fae blessing, maybe, like Maurice has?

Or just a reminder of what he was before he joined them?

“You’ve still got good instincts,” Asher says with a smile when he catches my eye. I flush and turn my gaze forward—there’s no need to keep looking at him like that. “I’d be wary of going with me too.”

“I know you won’t…” I swallow the rest of the sentence. I don’t know shit. Clearly.

“I’ve just sent Maurice a text to let him know I’m heading home,” he says, “and that I’m with someone.”

“Will he know it’s me?”

“Yes, I told him that.”

My heart beats faster. “Will he tell my pack?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I asked him not to.”

I look at him again. He’s being honest, I think, even relying on dulled senses as I am. “Okay.”

We go in silence the rest of the way. Sunlight streaks the horizon when we reach a little row of houses, a shop, and Asher gestures and leads me around the back.

He clatters up an iron staircase with ease.

I follow more slowly. Sounds reach me from some of the houses—people rising early to get ready for the day.

“Come on,” Asher says. “I’ll put a brew on.”

The flat isn’t large. The door opens to reveal stairs opposite, leading up to another couple of rooms. The one we’re standing in is the kitchen, with a small table and three chairs in the centre, like it’s the dining room, too.

Another door down here is open, revealing a sofa but no TV, and I glance up the stairs again.

The door up there is shut. A bedroom? Must be. I kick off my shoes, leave them by the front door, and when Asher waves a hand at the table, I all but collapse into one of the chairs.

Fuck, I’m tired . And aching now that I’m letting myself feel it. I haven’t slept all night, which means I’ll heal even slower, and all this running around hasn’t helped any.

Asher puts a steaming cup of tea in front of me and drops into the seat opposite. “Tea,” he says. “I’ve got sugar if you want it. Somewhere. I think.”

He looks different, somehow, as light begins to filter into the room. A little tired, like how I feel. Stubble darkens his jaw, and when he shrugs off his jacket, my eyes linger on the fresh tattoo on his forearm.

It has to be new, for how stark the lines are, for the faint redness that still surrounds it. Asher takes a sip from his cup and smiles when he sees me looking, then extends his arm. “You can touch it if you like.”

I snatch my hands back into my lap. “No, that’s… No.” I swallow and don’t let my eyes linger on the shimmering butterfly on the back of his hand or the arrows and broken lines that paint his fingers. “You said you’d tell me how to get my wolf back.”

Asher hums. He drinks half of his cup of tea, then sets it down with finality. “Yeah, I did.”

“So?”

“So it’ll take time. Work. It’s the same as being out of sync, only your wolf… He’s scared, too. Hiding.”

I bristle. “I’m not scared.”

“Call it anger, then.” Asher isn’t even fazed by my tone. “But your wolf is scared.”

He is? I am? Fuck, I know that I am. I just don’t want anyone else to know it.

Too late, I guess. Asher knows more about me than most people in my life right now. More than anyone else, considering what I’ve told him tonight.

“How can you help me?”

“We need to work on getting you back in sync again. Not fixing , not even healing , not fully. Just enough understanding that your wolf feels he can come out of his den. Okay?”

I shake my head. I don’t really get it. “How do you even know about all this?”

He tilts his head to one side, dark eyes boring into mine. “Isn’t it obvious? Before I joined the Hunt, I was a wolf.”

“You—” He can’t be. Can’t have been. I breathe in deep, which is rude of me, but I can’t smell it on him, and I should—I should be able to—

“Breathe, Quinn,” Asher says, and I don’t know when he rounded the table, but his face is suddenly level with mine and his hands are heavy on my shoulders. “Deep breaths, okay?”

“I can’t sense your wolf.”

“I know. He’s gone.”

“Gone? Like mine—”

“No.”

The word is sharp, curt, and I rock back a little to hear it. Asher doesn’t release his hold on me and doesn’t tighten it either. He’s steady, a rock in a churning stream.

“What happened?” I whisper, and Asher sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Can we talk about it in there?” He points at the living room. “I don’t… This isn’t comfortable.”

To talk about or does he just mean sitting?

Either way, I don’t want to argue. I nod and Asher straightens up, then extends a hand to help me, too.

I take it without thinking. He tugs me through into the living room and when I glance down, his tattooed fingers are dark against mine, dragging my gaze up to that still-exposed tattoo of clasped hands on his forearm.

“I got it tonight,” Asher says. He sits on the sofa and pulls me down with him. It’s a tight fit, our hips pressed together, and Asher doesn’t let go of my hand. “Still has to be set with magic, but I think it’s easier than it would have been before.”

I swallow. “When you had a wolf?”

“Yeah, when I had a wolf.”

“Did you have tattoos then, too?”

Asher smiles faintly. “Tried, once. But back then, we didn’t have the kind of tools we have now.

When I was young… A few friends, we tried.

Never stuck.” He pulls the collar of his T-shirt aside with his free hand, revealing part of a thorny vine underneath a patch of smooth, unmarked skin.

“The first one I had here. Didn’t last the night. ”

“You’ve not had anything else put there?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Asher shrugs his T-shirt back into place. “I’m not sure. Doesn’t feel right. Not yet.”

He falls silent, not quite settling back against the sofa cushions. I’m sitting just as stiffly, partially because I’m not so comfortable being here, not yet, and partially because if I relax, I think I’ll fall asleep.

Not that I want to. I want to know what Asher has to say, the need clawing at me desperately.

“About three hundred years ago,” Asher says and smiles at the look on my face, “my pack was attacked. By another pack—no, two, I think—and we just, we didn’t stand a chance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. I fought with them, for them. Some of the pups got away, but I never did find out if they survived.”

“And you?”

“And I… died. Well, almost. I was dying.” Asher’s gaze goes distant, but his fingers still hold on to mine tightly. “It was winter. It had snowed. I was bleeding, and I noticed…”

He stops and swallows, and the look he gives me now is a question. I nod. Has he ever told anyone this before? Does he need to tell someone about this?

“I noticed that the snow was melting, steaming, because of how hot my blood was.” Asher shuffles on his seat, pulling his hand back a little way, but I move with him, pressing closer.

“I was out on my own. A couple of the wolves had tricked me, ambushed me, and I just thought I was going to die like that, there, and with my pack gone, who would find me?”

His eyes shine, and a faint sound echoes from the back of my throat. Asher squeezes my hand and, with the other, reaches over to pat my knee.

“I’m fine, Quinn,” he says. His smile is real, but the tears in his eyes don’t go away. “I am, I just…”

“You’ve not talked to anyone about this?”

“The Huntsman is not known for his emotional warmth.”

I huff. One look at him told me that, back when he turned up at Deacon’s pack house. “What about the rest of the Hunt?”

“We’re not pack. It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“They’re not wolves.”

I frown, and he sighs. “My pack isn’t all wolves. Kieran doesn’t even have one.”

“No, I know, it’s just… It’s different, that’s all.”

“Yeah, okay. You didn’t die.”

“I didn’t. He was there, a few breaths before my last. The Huntsman. I knew he was fae—back then, we knew to fight them. We knew our role.”

Our role? I want to ask, but I want to hear Asher’s story more, so I bite back the question.

“He asked me if I wanted to join his Hunt. He could save me, he said, and even give me the power to fight the fae head-on, but at a cost.”

“Your wolf?”

“My wolf.”

“And you—” I snap my mouth shut, my tone way too accusatory for the story Asher just told me. He gave up his wolf because otherwise he’d die. What choice is that?

And me? Sure, I still have mine, somewhere, but I’ve gambled him on the desire to work out my anger. That’s not better.

It’s far worse.

“I’ve always liked having a purpose,” Asher says, “but I can’t pretend that drove my decision.

I was dying. I knew it. My wolf knew it.

We were already fractured, fading away. Still…

I said that yes on my last breath. I don’t regret it, not entirely, but I don’t think I’ll ever make a harder decision in this life. ”

He doesn’t look directly at me when he’s finished, and it takes me a second to realise that he’s avoiding my gaze. I edge closer, and when he still doesn’t look at me, I lean in and rest my weight against his side, my chin on his shoulder.

Asher laughs—it sounds wet—and wraps his other arm around me, burying his face in my hair. I want to comfort him. I’m not sure how much of that he gets.