Page 8 of Rook
“I guess in England. Not here in America.” She straightened, shoulders squaring, breathing growing steadier. “So you’re saying there are a bunch of asshole slavers in these woods and you’re chasing them.”
“Yes.”
“Erik was their guide.”
“How do you know that?” He stepped closer, the question clipped and direct.
“Because I overheard them. And they gave him money. I thought it was drugs, but this is even worse. You need my help.” Her tone shifted mid-sentence, from outrage to something almost businesslike.
That brought Rook up short. “Excuse me?”
“You’re stumbling around these woods like a confused CEO from the city on a weekend getaway with his mistress. I practically live in these woods. If you want to find these fuckers, you need my help.” She crossed her arms, daring him to argue.
Did he? Rook thought he’d been doing fine on his own. But he didn’t want this woman wandering alone, not with slavers still out there.
His gaze dropped to her hands. They were still shaking, just a little, but her grip was steady. A stubborn fire burned in her eyes, the kind he’d seen in warriors who refused to surrender. He felt the pull again, low in his gut.
He could agree to this, at least until he could find a safe place for her.
“I accept.” He kept his voice low and measured, but a note of finality in it brooked no argument.
For a moment, they just stood there. The stream rushed between them, and the forest crowded close and silent. The moon climbed higher, silvering her hair and throwing his shadow long and thin across the water.
She nodded once, sharp and determined. “Good.”
He found himself smiling, just a little, despite everything. There was more steel in this woman than in most soldiers he’d met.
Rook stepped across the stream, his boots splashing in the cold water. She didn’t flinch when he closed the distance, just watched him with wary, unblinking eyes.
“We need to move,” he said quietly. “If they regroup, they’ll come for us.”
“Then let’s go,” she replied. “But you’re following me this time."
5
She was leading a dragon through the woods. Of all the clients she’d ever guided, counting at least three different cults, this one was definitely the weirdest.
Sasha moved by memory. The night pressed in, cool and heavy. A dense canopy swallowed the moonlight, leaving only trembling silver ribbons pooled on the moss and roots below. She didn’t need more than that. Every turn, every dip in the ground, felt as familiar as her own home in the dark.
Still, her nerves hummed with an uneasy sharpness. Somewhere out there, men who weren’t men prowled the shadows.
Slavers. Dragons.
Aliens.
Whatever she called them, the danger was the same. Her mind cataloged every stray snap in the underbrush, every gust of wind that didn’t sound quite right. There was a strange comfort from the hulking shape at her back.
Despite the danger, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that safe with another person in the wild. She had built her life on not trusting anyone, on being the one who looked out for herself. Now, with Rook, the fear wasn’t quite so sharp.
A branch snapped under his boot, and he cursed in a language she didn’t recognize, a string of harsh, guttural sounds. She glanced back just in time to see him stumble over an unseen root.
“I am summoning my fire,” he warned, his voice tight with irritation. “Don’t be frightened.”
“Don’t,” she snapped, sharper than she intended. The memory of that living fire snaking through the woods sent a shudder up her spine. “It’ll ruin your night vision.”
Rook made a low sound of protest, the noise of a man used to being obeyed. She could practically feel the tension in his jaw, the muscles bunching in his powerful neck. He swept past her, his long stride eating up the trail. She had to scramble to keep up, her mind flicking between watching for danger and fighting the urge to argue with him. This was her territory. She sure as hell wasn’t letting some big, fire-breathing alien lead her into a trap.
“I’m leading,” she reminded him, her voice flat.
