For the Wolf by Hannah Whitten (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

“The process has already begun. If we uproot enough of the Wilderwood, the Kings can come home.” Neve swallowed. “Redarys can come home.”

Kiri’s head snapped to her, eyes crackling, but the new High Priestess said nothing.

“The ship for the Rylt leaves in half an hour.” Neve started toward the stairs that would take her to the door. Her parting words were said over her shoulder, ricocheting off marble. “You can join us, or you can leave.”

Chapter Nineteen

R ustling woke her, fabric rasping over wood. Red slit her eyes against the lavender light. At the other end of the room, Eammon sat up, rubbing his hand over his face. The muscles in his back flexed as he gathered his hair at the nape of his neck and tied it in a messy knot.

She’d seen him wake up every morning for nearly two weeks now, since she’d told him he had to start sleeping more. And every morning, her cheeks heated when the firelight caught his bare skin.

Eammon stood, rolled his neck and shook out his shoulders, tense from another night on the floor. She knew this routine. He’d stand by the fire a moment, waking himself up, before pulling a shirt from the pile that never quite made it inside the wardrobe. He’d glance at the bed, face unreadable, then pad quietly down the stairs in an attempt not to wake her.

But today was apparently different. Eammon shoved his feet in his boots on the way to the wardrobe, pulling out a black shirt and coat. The top drawer squeaked as he opened it, and he cursed softly under his breath, darting a look to the bed.

Red abandoned the ruse of sleep, though she stayed curled around her pillow. “Where are you going?”

He pulled the drawer the rest of the way out. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Squeaky drawers will do that.”

Eammon snorted, reaching into said squeaky drawer to withdraw a dagger in a sheath. He strapped it to his hip. “We need supplies. I’m going to the Edge.”

Red hadn’t left the Keep since Isla died, wandering between their room and the library and sometimes the tower, waiting for a summons from Eammon that never came. She’d felt lost and insubstantial, and now the opportunity to do something— anything— made want seize her by the throat. “Take me with you.”

He paused. The intent to deny her was in his eyes, his head angling to shake.

She sat up, sheets puddling around her waist. “Please, Eammon.”

Desperation must have hung in her voice. Eammon sighed, eyes on the ceiling. “Fine.” He jerked his chin toward the wardrobe. “Get dressed. Meet me downstairs.”

Red went to the wardrobe, grabbing one of Eammon’s shirts and a pair of trousers she’d improbably found in the depths of the same closet that had held Merra’s dress. Eammon had managed to salvage her boots from her old room since the ones he’d given her were far too large— the leather was hopelessly scuffed, but serviceable. She fished her cloak out of the drawer.

Eammon eyed it with his lips pressed together. “There’s a seamstress in the Edge,” he said carefully, like he expected her to stop him at every word. “If you . . . if you wanted that mended, she could do it.”

She’d washed the thing, finally, rinsing away the dirt from her first flight through the Wilderwood. But the fabric was still thorn-ragged, the hem fringed with trailing threads. Red rubbed the rough weave of it between her fingers. “I’d like that.”

He nodded. “Find a dagger that suits you,” Eammon called as he started down the stairs. “And you’ll want a sheath.”

The sheath Red chose was meant to be worn on the thigh, strapped around the leg like a leather shackle. Choosing daggers and sheaths for them wasn’t something she was well versed in, and it rubbed awkwardly as they made their way through the Wilderwood, boots over leaves the only sound disturbing the silence.

“You can move it to your arm, if you want.” Eammon was a dark shape in the fog ahead of her. “Won’t be as easy to draw, but it’ll keep you from walking bowlegged.”

“Will I need to draw it?”

“I doubt it, but it’s best to be prepared.”

Her hand closed around the unfamiliar shape of the hilt. “I’m surprised you let me carry one at all,” she said. “What with the risk of bleeding.”

Eammon stopped, glanced at her over his shoulder. “I’m trusting you to be careful,” he said, and there was nothing playful in his tone.

Red released the hilt.

Their silence as they walked through the forest was mostly comfortable. An edge of tension remained, wrought by distance: Eammon had been scarce since her mother died, barely a presence at all. They’d exchanged a few words when they crossed paths, but nothing like the baring of truth they’d given each other the day they healed the sentinel, the day he showed her the mirror. The lay of the land between them had changed, mountains leveling to valleys, and his absence meant she hadn’t had a chance to learn the navigation.

Maybe it shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. And the careful way he held himself, like he’d measured the distance he wanted between them, was splinter-sharp and just as irritating.

“Is this why you’ve been gone every day?” she asked. “Going to the Edge?”

The way Eammon moved was a language to itself. The tension in his shoulders, worry. The way they bowed inward, resignation.

“I know you weren’t close, but she was your mother.” His softness was a rebuttal to her blade-edge. “I’ve complicated things enough for you there. I thought you needed time.”

“Time alone?” It was quiet, but the silence of the Wilderwood made it carry.

His head dipped forward, breath clouding the air. “I didn’t know if you’d want me around,” he murmured. “Since I was the reason for . . . for the distance between you and her.”

She’d caught his fingers