Page 6 of Bought By the Revenant
Chapter Four
Riven
I stand frozen, unable to believe what I just heard. The word echoes in my mind.
Sold.
The midwife – Amity – chose me. After countless rejections today, after years of solitude, someone has actually chosen me. The shock leaves me unable to speak.
She runs toward me, her steps urgent and quick. As she gets closer, she looks back over her shoulder. I follow where she’s looking and see three men pushing through the crowd from the direction of the stage. They move with purpose, their eyes locked on Amity. The leader walks fast, his eyes shining with unrestrained obsession. Behind him, a large man limps along, favoring one leg but keeping pace. A tall man walks beside them, his face blank and his stare fixed straight ahead without blinking.
Amity reaches me and immediately moves behind me. Her fear radiates from her whole body. I feel her fingers grab the fabric of my cloak and hold tight.
“Please,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
I understand now. She didn’t choose me because she wanted me. She chose protection from these men and whatever they want from her. Still, it’s more than anyone has offered me in centuries.
The three men stop a few feet away. The leader’s eyes narrow as he looks at my face, now fully on display with my hood fallen back. His hand moves to rest on a knife hanging from his belt. I draw myself to my full height, using my body to block their path. The movement pulls at the stitches along my spine, a discomfort I’ve gotten used to. Every time I move, I feel the threads thathold me together. It’s an issue I fixed for the revenants that came after me, but that I could never fix for myself.
“Step aside, creature,” the man says. “That woman belongs to Draug.”
“I don’t know who Draug is,” I say, my voice low and even, “but she belongs to herself, and has chosen to come with me.”
He spits into the dirt. “Unnatural abomination,” he mutters, but I see him calculating as he looks me over, measuring whether to fight or retreat. After a long, tense moment, he signals to his companions. They back away and disappear into the crowd.
Amity’s hand still clutches my cloak, her body trembling against my back.
“Can we leave?” she whispers. “Now?”
“I need to pay the auctioneer first,” I explain, trying to keep my voice gentle despite its natural rasp.
We find the purple-vested man who ran the auction. His surprise shows clearly on his face as his eyes dart between Amity and me, trying to understand what just happened. I hand over the sum without haggling – more gold than most humans see in a lifetime. The auctioneer counts it quickly, then gives Amity her portion after taking his fee.
“Most brides send money to their families,” he says, eyeing her curiously.
“I have no family,” she says, pocketing the coins. “Can we go now? Please?”
Her urgency grows as she scans the crowd again. I follow where she looks but see no sign of the three men. Still, I understand her need to leave quickly. I lead her to my carriage, and she pauses before climbing in, weighing whether getting into a confined space with me is worse than staying where those men might find her. Once inside, she moves to the farthest corner and looks out the window. I take my seat opposite her,making sure to keep as much distance between us as the carriage allows. The carriage lurches forward, and we begin our journey away from Crosshold.
The silence stretches, heavy with all the questions neither of us asks. I should speak, but what does one say to a woman who has chosen a monster over her own kind because she had no other option?
“I am Riven,” I finally offer. “And you are Amity. It’s a lovely name.”
“Thank you,” she responds, her attention still fixed outside the window.
“Those men,” I venture, “they’re from your village?”
Her shoulders tense. “From my past. It’s over now.” Her tone tells me she doesn’t want to discuss it further.
I nod, respecting her privacy while noting how she continues watching for danger. She’s still trembling, though I can’t tell if it’s from fear, cold, or exhaustion. I remove my cloak slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might startle her.
“You’re cold,” I say, offering it to her.
I make sure our hands don’t touch when she takes it. Surprise crosses her face, but she accepts the cloak and wraps it around her shoulders.
“Thank you.”
I notice her fingernails are painted blue, a small detail that doesn’t match her otherwise practical appearance. I wonder if it’s a cultural custom from her homeland or simply a personal preference. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone new in my life. Everything about her fascinates me. The silence returns, though it feels less uncomfortable than before. I should explain what being my bride will mean, what she can expect from our arrangement.
