LOGINRelease me! I was only trying to save your life!
Her voice cracked as she wriggled frantically beneath him. The cold mud soaked through the back of her dress and filled her hair, but the front of her body burned from his heat. He felt like a furnace, a wild beast made of pure muscle and fever. She pushed her hands against his chest, but it was like pushing against solid stone. Her slick fingers slid against his sweaty, blood-stained skin, leaving smear marks over his broad ribs. He did not answer her plea. His breath came fast and shallow, rattling deep in his throat like loose stones scraping together. The golden light in his eyes flared brighter, dulling his dark pupils until he looked completely blind to reason. The deep cut on his waist bled onto the blue fabric of her dress, warm and thick, but he did not seem to feel the wound at all. Instead, his gaze dropped to her mouth. His hand shifted from her wrists down to her collarbone, his sharp nails dragging lightly over her pale skin without breaking it. "You smell like rain," he muttered. His voice was deeper now, stripped of all rage, replaced by a dark, hungry edge that made her blood run cold. "Like soft soil and sweet water." "Please," she choked out, her heels digging into the wet grass as she tried to shove his massive shoulder away. "Let me up. You are hurt. You are bleeding into the dirt!" "The pain..." He gasped, bowing his heavy head until his dark, matted hair fell across her forehead. He let out a low groan that vibrated straight through her ribcage. "The pain in my chest is tearing me apart. It has been burning since I opened my eyes in this darkness. I cannot breathe. I cannot think." "I have herbs," she whispered, her eyes wide with terror as she tried to wriggle her hips out from under his heavy legs. "They are right there in the dirt. They will stop the burning. Just let me go." "No herb can fix this," he growled low in his chest. The fierce, murderous edge in his posture suddenly shifted. The urge to break her neck vanished, replaced instantly by an overwhelming, suffocating weight that pressed her flat into the damp grass. The agony tearing through his veins seemed to quiet down whenever his body pressed closer to hers. The dark, frantic madness in his eyes softened into something far more dangerous. It was not a desire to kill. It was a primal, desperate hunger. He shifted his weight, burying his hips tighter against hers. She gasped at the sheer pressure, her hands instinctively grabbing his broad shoulders to keep from sinking deeper into the mud. He was so heavy, so impossibly strong, that every small movement he made trapped her tighter in the dirt. "What are you doing?" she cried, her breath coming in panicked hitches as her heart hammered against her ribs. "Stop... please, just stop!" "I need this," he rasped into her skin, his mouth dragging up the side of her neck toward her ear. His words were raw, unhinged, and heavy with an unbearable ache he could not control. "I need to drown this fire before it burns me to ash." "No!" She slammed her fists against his hard chest, but her blows did not even make him flinch. "I don't know who you are! You are a stranger!" He ignored her cries, completely lost to the storm inside his own mind. He released her hands, but before she could throw him off, his massive palms slid down her sides, gripping her waist with terrifying power. His broad thumbs dug into her hipbones, holding her locked in place beneath him. He lifted her slightly, pinning her flush against his hard frame until there was no space left between them. The contact made his breath hitch in a sharp, ragged gasp. The sheer relief washed over his face, clearing the blind rage from his features for a brief, fleeting second. But the relief only fed the dark hunger consuming his blood. She felt the brutal hardness of his frame pressed against her soft belly. Panic flared wildly in her chest. She grabbed his thick wrists, her small nails digging into his skin, trying with all her remaining strength to pry his heavy hands off her waist. "Let me go!" she sobbed, tears spilling over her cheeks and pooling in her ears. "I came out here to gather leaves! I didn't do anything to you!" "You came near me," he whispered, his voice trembling with a dark, intoxicating heat. "That was your mistake, girl." His head dipped lower, his heavy brow resting against her shoulder. His dark, messy hair brushed against her cheek, tickling her tear-stained skin. The heat rolling off him was suffocating, wrapping around her like a heavy woolen blanket pulled straight from a fire. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest—a fast, violent rhythm that matched the terrifying speed of her own pulse. He stopped moving for a second, his body trembling violently as if fighting a war against himself. His grip on her waist tightened until it hurt, his large fingers spanning nearly the entire width of her torso. "I don't remember my name," he rasped, his warm breath fanning across her collarbone, making every hair on her body stand on end. "I don't remember how long I've been dead in the dark... or how long I've been breathing this bitter air. I only know this pain. "Then let me help you up!" she begged, her voice shrinking to a desperate whisper. "We can go to the village. The elders have medicine "No village, he growled, the sharp edge returning to his tone. No one can touch me. Only you. Why me?" she sobbed, her strength slowly draining away under his crushing weight. "Why are you doing this to me?" He didn't answer with words. He slowly shifted his weight higher, sliding his large body up hers until his face was buried deep in the sensitive crook of her neck. He pressed his face right where her neck met her shoulder, taking a long, deep, desperate breath of her skin. He inhaled as if he were a drowning man taking his very first gasp of air, dragging her scent deep into his lungs. As her scent filled his nose, a low, primal growl rumbled deep in his chest a heavy, rolling sound that vibrated straight through her bones, making her entire body freeze in absolute terror."Put that down, Lyra."Her father said it from the middle of the square, with his hands held out in front of him like a man calming a horse.It was dawn. A thin grey light lay over the cobbles, and a mist drifted off the well, and the red hands on the doors looked almost black in it. Lyra stood on the top step of the cellar stairs with the sky above her for the first time in a night and a day. The kitchen knife was in her right fist. Her left arm was hooked around her stepmother's neck, and the old woman's breath came in short, sobbing wheezes against her sleeve.Behind her, Brielle stood in the cellar doorway, white to the lips, with a bruise across her cheek the color of a ripe plum.Four of Gorath's men had been at the head of the stairs when she came up. They had seen the knife at the throat of the woman who would be their lord's mother in law, and they had stopped, uncertain, while somebody ran to fetch the master of the house. Now they ringed the stair at a careful distance. Pas
"Smell his lips, my lord."Lyra said it quietly.She stood with her back against the wall of the cellar and the small knife held low at her side, and she did not raise her voice. Across the flagstones, Brielle had stopped in the middle of her crossing, one slippered foot in front of the other, with the baby in her arms and a smile spreading over her wet face. Gorath had not moved from the foot of the stairs. His huge red hand was still held out, palm up, waiting."What did you say, widow?""The boy's mouth." Lyra did not look at her stepsister. She looked at the warlord, steadily, the way she had once looked at a hanging rope. "Put your nose to it. If I am lying, my father's men can drown me in the river with my son.""Lyra," Brielle breathed, sweetly. "Do not make a scene."Gorath's pale eyes slid from one woman to the other. He had the look of a man at a market stall who has been offered two loaves and told only one of them is poisoned."Give him here," he said.Brielle laid the bab
"You pointed at my window in front of everyone. You gave me to him."The kitchen knife shook in Brielle's hand.It was a small, ordinary knife, the kind used for peeling turnips, and she held it low and out in front of her like a girl who had never held a weapon in her life. Candle stub, cold cellar, the breath of both of them rising in thin white threads. Lyra stood on the bottom step with her chained wrists hanging in front of her and thirty armed men waiting above, and she looked at the stepsister she had not seen in nearly a year.She had changed. Brielle had been a round cheeked woman of twenty when Lyra left, with ribbons in her braids and a way of tilting her head when she wanted something. Now she was tall and pale, in a nightgown and a man's coat, with her hair hacked off at the shoulder, and her eyes were red and wide and brimming. She looked like the victim in a ballad. That was what Lyra noticed first.She had always looked like that when she wanted something."Give me my
"I asked," said Gorath, "whose child that is."He did not raise his voice. He had no need. The square had gone so quiet that Lyra could hear the creak of his saddle leather as he swung down, and the chime of the iron rings in his beard, and the slow, wet drip from a spear point where somebody's blood had not yet dried. Thirty riders sat their horses in a ring around the cart. Not one of them moved. Behind every shutter in the village, a hundred held breaths gathered like smoke."My lord," said her father.His voice cracked on the second word. He had slid down from his grey horse without being asked and stood with his cap crushed in both hands, and sweat ran in thin lines through the dust on his face. "A foundling, my lord. A babe left on the church step. My wife took pity, as women do. We meant to give him to the priest, only...""A foundling." Gorath rolled the word around his mouth like a bone. "That is a great deal of pity for a house with two daughters and a debt.""The cold, my l
"You will marry Warlord Gorath at the new moon, or the boy goes into the river."The cart hit a rut, and the chain on Lyra's wrists bit down to the bone.She did not cry out. She lifted her head from the boards, slowly, the way a cat lifts its head when something moves in the grass, and she looked at the man riding beside the tailgate on his tall grey horse. He had not shaved in three days. There was blood on his sleeve, someone else's, from the river. He did not look at her. He looked straight down the road ahead with the leather strap swinging at his belt, as though he were speaking to the weather."Say that again," said Lyra, "and I will finish what the mill hook started."Nobody in the cart moved.There were four men with her in the back, riding on the benches with their spears across their knees, and not one of them was looking at her either. They had been looking at her for the first hour. They had looked at her chained wrists and her bound feet and the blood dried black on her
"You cannot outrun me carrying a child."Lyra did not stop running.The voice came across the frozen river behind her, warm and patient and a little out of breath, and she knew it for a lie before she knew whose it was. It was Maren's voice. It had Maren's dry, kind rasp, the crack in the middle of every vowel, the way it dropped when she was about to say something sensible. She had fallen asleep to that voice for five months. She had held an old woman's hand through the wall of a smoking cottage while it said *go.*"Do not wear her," Lyra said, through her teeth."Why not, child?" said the voice. "She was so fond of you."The river road was a ribbon of blue snow under a sky going pale at the edges. Her bare feet had stopped hurting an hour ago, and that frightened her more than the pain had. She had torn the hem of her smock into strips and bound her soles, and the strips had frozen to her skin, and every step left a faint pink print. Against her chest, in a blanket she had knotted i







