by Piper Rayne
My claws were stretching out to her perfect white neck; my teeth were dangerously close to her pulse. I could smell her blood, smell her meat—
“Gawen,” she whispered once more, tears pouring from her cheeks, freezing before they hit the ground. “I won’t fight you. I won’t risk hurting you—but Gawen, please. Listen to me. You won’t hurt me, either. You won’t. I know you won’t.”
Something shifted within me.
Something shattering, an icy pond thawing.
The beast retreated, back to pace its caged corner in my mind, and I, Gawen, wild man of the Fair Forest, lover of Rosaline, protector of her until the end of my days, I glanced in her eyes, murmuring her name: “Rosaline?”
The smile that broke her face would be one that I would see in my dreams, I knew it. “Gawen?” She reached out her hand, as gingerly as one would approach a feral animal.
Zip!
Something hit me, right through my shoulder.
An arrow.
Such a small thing, compared to me—and I should have reacted as if it were a sliver, a mosquito bite.
But the angle hit me in just the right place—or, perhaps, in just the wrong place.
I could feel my heart speed up its beating, and then slow.
I could feel the wetness of my blood, oozing out of the wound, dripping onto the white snow below.
I could feel the heat drain from me, and as I slumped over I watched the branches of the trees spiral, the world white all around me, and Rosaline, tumbling upside-down and back again as I fell into the snow.
At least I did not hurt her, I thought.
At least I would die knowing that she was the only one who could tame me.
Chapter Twenty-three
ROSALINE
My Gawen.
I saw him, for a brief shining moment.
And I do mean shining—
He was cursed, he was the beast, he was about to attack me, and I was fully prepared to die.
I wasn’t going to risk hurting him, not when he wasn’t in his right mind—it wasn’t Gawen who was thrashing and clawing at me, after all, it was the curse.
The horrible, evil spell that Mortas had put on him to punish him—
And then I said his name.
I said his name again and again, each time saying it as if it were itself magic. I whispered it, I cried it out, I called for him as if he was merely lost in the woods, and I said it plainly, as if we were already in the middle of the rest of our lives together, and I needed him to pass me the salt.
I said his name again and again until he remembered who he was—and then I saw his eyes tilt golden.
I saw him look at me, and know me as his love, his mate—
And then the arrow, taking him down.
Pytor, from the village—that was who shot the arrow that pierced through my Gawen.
A young man, only my age—my mother always thought that I would grow up to marry Pytor, but I found him dull and intolerably weak-minded, even when I was a child.
And now, he’d shot the love of my life.
“No!” I cried out, my voice raw, shrill as a bat’s shriek in the night, and across the field, Pytor, who had clearly been expecting my gratitude, looked shocked.
Guilty.
“Get out!” I screamed at Pytor. “Go! Leave this place!”
Pytor would not get my pity—he had wanted to look the part of a hero to the other villagers, so he’d crept back through the forest boundaries to shoot himself some game.
No doubt he’d been practically salivating at the thought of bagging something as huge and hulking as Gawen—Pytor had probably already picked out the place above his mantle where Gawen’s beastly head would hang as a trophy.
But now Pytor stared at me, terror in his eyes, and I realized I was shouting at him with all the fervor and madness of a monster.
“They—they said we could come back to the forest!” he called to me. “They said it was safe. They said we could hunt for food!”
“This is not food!” I screamed, and the forest screamed with me.
All those farmers from Fairfront had chopped into trees, seeking firewood, and those trees now cried out in pain—how could the villagers not have heard it?
How could they not hear it now?
“Get out, Pytor!” I shouted again, “or I’ll set your scrawny ass on fire from here!”
Pytor just stared at me, that same dumb look on his face that he’d had as a child, and so I narrowed my eyes, sending up a line of flames, bursting from the snow at the edge of the forest.
He rushed off, back towards Fairfront, spilling the rest of his arrows in his haste to get away from me.
I waved my hand and the fire was doused; my grief could burn down the entire forest if I let it.
For the second time in as many days, I flew to the side of my only love.
“Gawen,” I stammered, trying to roll him onto his back without disrupting the wound—the arrow was buried deep, and while his fur was stopping some of the bleeding, the snow was already crimson beneath him.
This was beyond what I could do now.
But I had to try.
“Rosaline,” he groaned—his face was pale, his eyes sunken into their sockets. I could almost feel his pain, radiating from him, and I had to concentrate to keep from sobbing.
“It’s all right,” I told him. “Stay with me. I know it hurts. I’m going to heal you.”
Please, I whispered to the forest, everything you have, please, give it to him, keep him alive, bring him back to me—
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even communicate with the trees—it was like something was blocking my voice. The forest felt completely still, silent, already in the throes of its death rattle—
And when I glanced up to see if there was even one green leaf till clinging to any branches, one critter scurrying around the trees, Mortas was there.
The smirk on his face made my insides twist with rage—but I concentrated on Gawen, on finding the forest magic, on making him whole again.
Please, I begged, please, searching for those threads of magic, those whispers that would tell me what to do, how to fix this.
Mortas took a step towards me—his robes were so dark against the blinding white of the snow, he was almost silhouetted in the landscape. “Pain,” he said, “is the best motivator for magic. I wouldn’t expect you to understand this yet—it’s more advanced, and you, unfortunately, will never progress past candle wicks and pond visions.” He thrust his chin at Gawen, whose glassy eyes were barely focusing on the traitor who was his former mentor and master. “All that rage you’re feeling? That grief? All of that is power, though you have no idea how to use it—no need, however.” Mortas yanked a dagger from his robes; its point glinted silver against the snow. “Once I drain your blood on the roots of the birch tree, all that power will be returned to the forest. I will reabsorb your magic, and the source will be stabilized—”
I didn’t wait for him to finish.
I slid forward, kicking upward, hitting my target, sending his dagger flying out of his hand. It landed in the snow bank some ten feet away, and immediately I scrambled after it.
My love, Gawen, bleeding in the snow—but I had to make sure we were safe, had to make sure that Mortas could not…
I paused, lifting the dagger’s handle just as Mortas reached my side. He was panting, strained for breath—he had aged terribly since last I saw him. A few more hours without the magic to replenish his youth, and he would surely turn to dust.
But if he slaughtered me and drained my blood in the forest, what was stopping him from doing the same to Gawen? Perhaps Mortas believed the forest’s magic would be stable enough, or perhaps Gawen and I had meddled too much to be trusted. Perhaps Mortas would find some other hapless orphan, and start the whole process all over again—
I needed a guarantee. A vow.
I needed Gawen’s safety to be spoken for.
So I held up the blade, lett
ing its reflection shine directly in Mortas’s eyes, and stood.
Mortas tracked my every movement and tilted his head in confusion when I turned the blade into my own palm, running it against the flesh.
Three drops of my own blood dripped into the snow. “I am going to let you take me,” I told Mortas. “But my life will come with a price.”
“I could kill you for free,” Mortas said again, stepping forward, and I glared at the snow right beneath his boots. Flames darted up and he jumped back, staring at the strange combination of fire and ice at his feet.
“I will not come easily,” I said, “and by the time you finally fight me and slit my throat, the forest may be dead. Look at it now—do you really think it will last? Is it worth the risk?”
Mortas glanced up at the trees, at the stark black branches stretching like fingers up into the white sky. He peered back down at me with despite in his eyes, but managed to choke out, “What do you have in mind?”
My stomach hollowed out. “I want a guarantee that Gawen will live. If I let you take me, you will heal him, and you will set him free. No more curse, no more wards keeping him in the forest.” I pointed at the blood that I’d spilled in the snow. “Seal this vow with your own blood, so that the forest can keep you accountable—and I will give you your knife and let you do your deed.”
Mortas lifted his chin, assessing me. He seemed to be determining whether or not this was a trap, but I kept my eyes open and steadfast.
There were no traps involved—not this time. No tricks, no fancy wordplay, nothing but old-fashioned blood sacrifice.
I would do it a thousand times more if it meant Gawen would live. He’d had his life stolen from him once already. If I could die in order to give him a second chance, I would consider it the highest honor.
Mortas used the edge of one of his rubies embedded in his ring to break open the skin on his pinky finger; squeezing the drops onto the snow, he matched my own red dots. Three of them, all in a row.
“Say it,” I instructed him. “Out loud, so the forest can hear you—and you know what it will do to you if you break your vow.”
Mortas sneered at me, and I was certain that I had just guaranteed myself a very painful death—but Mortas said it out loud.
“I swear,” he repeated, “that Gawen will live and be given his freedom.”
“Curse-free,” I added.
“Curse-free,” Mortas continued. “I will have nothing more to do with him. Now, give me the knife.”
This was it.
My stomach was prickling with nerves—I’d already faced my death multiple times this last week. First, when the villagers tied me to the birch tree, and I’d watched the glowing eyes of the wolves surrounding me, licking their chops as it grew darker and darker.
Second, when I’d slipped in the pond, nearly drowning, then hovered in and out of consciousness as hypothermia threatened to kill me.
Finally, just moments ago, when Gawen’s curse took over his mind and he’d almost attacked me beneath the trees—but now, as I walked myself over to Mortas and to my death, I marveled at how simple it all seemed.
One slash to the neck, a few minutes of agony as I bled out onto the snow, and it would be over.
I would sleep, and I would never wake up.
“On your knees, bitch.” Mortas took his knife from my hands and shoved me forward, hard; I fell into the snow and grit my teeth, resisting the urge to throw my fist into his face. “Any last words?” he taunted as he held the blade against my neck.
His dagger was cold, but my blood boiled hot against the surface of my throat. I refused to look at him, refused to have my last words address him at all—instead I glanced down at Gawen, my only love.
I’d given everything to him—and now, I’d give him my very life.
“I love you,” I whispered, a single tear rolling down my cheek, falling off my chin, landing in the snow.
If only I could have held him one last time, kissed him, touched him—
And then with a gigantic roar that made every last bird in the forest fly out of their trees, Gawen sprung to life and, in a swift movement, seized Mortas’s hand and yanked the knife from his old master’s grip.
Chapter Twenty-four
GAWEN
What a strange thing, to know that you are dying.
I could feel my blood spilling out of my wound, coating the snow, melting the ice.
I could feel the pain—sharp at first, and then slowly fading, which was how I knew that this was the end.
Flat on my back, the arrow jutted out from my shoulder at an odd angle, parallel to the ground—and I could see Rosaline, hovering above me, speaking my name.
And I could also hear the birds, far off in the forest—in fact, even as Rosaline, love of my life, spoke to me, trying to comfort me, making promises to heal me… It was those birds that got my attention.
Ever since Mortas laid his curse on me, I couldn’t hear the forest—couldn’t hear the whisper of the trees, the chatter of the critters running through the underbrush, the gossip of the birds…
It had been silent, so silent.
But I could hear the birds singing now, and it brought tears to my eyes.
This forest, my home for so many years.
And Rosaline, who I’d been waiting for—she’d finally come, and for one blissful week, my life had been complete.
I’d been so happy… And it should have been a pleasure to have her here in my final moments—
But then the birds started trilling.
Danger, they rang. Danger—and then there was Mortas. Looming in his robes, looking very much like one of the stark black trees that dotted the landscape, an icy sneer on his face.
I couldn’t do anything.
I couldn’t stop him—and as he yanked a dagger from his belt and threatened Rosaline’s life, a surge of anger flooded my body.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.
I wasn’t supposed to die feeling an uncontrollable rage—I was supposed to drift off peacefully in the arms of my love. If I had to die as a cursed beast, I had at least hoped to do it with my head in her lap, feeling her stroke my fur, her face the last thing I saw—
And then Rosaline, my sweet, sweet Rosaline…
I could hear her offer herself for my own life.
I tried to sit up, cry out, tell her that this was an insane trade and she shouldn’t trust any vow that Mortas made.
But it was too late.
My time had come.
Eyes rolled back in my head, and then they closed.
Breathing slowed, and then it stopped.
I hovered in that moment between alive and dead, waiting—
And above me, Rosaline tilted her head back, exposing her neck, her perfect neck—
But as soon as Mortas’s blade touched her flesh, something roared inside of me.
Not inside—
Outside.
At first, I thought it was the birds—they were crying out, chorusing so loudly, and their songs braided together in a noise that was at once afraid and triumphant.
Then I realized the noise was coming from me.
My chest.
I had not died.
I was very much alive, and in a flash, the forest spoke to me, telling me what had happened.
When Rosaline offered to die to save my own life, I was healed. My bleeding halted, and the curse was lifted. I was no longer hovering in that space just before death—I was alive, and I was furious.
My old master, and yet he would have watched me die.
A village elder who had seen Rosaline grow from infant to adult, and yet he would have her sacrifice herself to keep his magic? To keep himself young and powerful forever?
Let me keep this body just for a while longer, I pleaded to the forest as I blinked my eyes open. Let me keep my beast—just until she is safe.
And the forest obliged.
With a growl that echoed around the barren trees, I tugged the arro
w out of my shoulder and surged to life, leaping to my feet, charging to Mortas with claws and fangs bared.
Mortas’s eyes widened—he had been so certain I was already gone, but here I was.
Ready to attack.
A word escaped his mouth—a spell, or an attempt at one, and he raised his hands, firing curses at me, his face contorted in an expression of such hatred, it almost frightened me.
But I did not need to fear hatred.
I had love, a love so powerful, it had brought me back from death.
I glanced at Rosaline, just enough to let her see my eyes. The rest of my body may have been fully transformed into my beastly form, but my eyes glowed golden, full of adoration for her.
And with Rosaline’s love pulsing through me, I sprang toward Mortas, pinning him into the snow.
“Stupid, insolent boy,” my old master spat in my face. “Orphan.”
“Gawen, look out!” Rosaline shrieked.
Behind me, Mortas lifted his dagger, ready to bury it into my back—but Rosaline cried out to the forest, and shooting up from the ground, roots and vines burst through the snow, restraining Mortas, knocking the blade from his hands.
The forest, under her command—I nodded at her in gratitude, but even with his arms and legs tied down, Mortas wouldn’t stop fighting to get away. “You never amounted to anything,” he hissed. “Weakling, fool—”
No more talking.
It was time to finish him.
Summoning all the adrenaline that had coursed through me as a beast, all the fury I’d felt when Mortas had lifted that dagger to Rosaline’s throat, I buried my teeth into his throat.
Rip. Tear. Kill.
And then it was done.
Mortas’s blood drained out of him, and beneath the snow, I could feel it—
The roots of the silver birch tree, stretching forward to receive his blood.
All the magic that Mortas had stolen and hoarded for himself, returning to the land.
I stood, wiping the blood from my mouth, and found that the backs of my hands were smooth. My fangs had disappeared, too—the fur that had covered my body was gone, and the extreme muscular frame of that beastly form had subsided, leaving me as I was when Rosaline met me.
