through the narrow streets between them. She’d learned the name of this city thrice now, and still couldn’t pronounce it.
She supposed it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t be here long. Just as they had not lingered in any of the cities they’d swept through, or the forests or mountains or lowlands. Kingdom after kingdom, the relentless pace set by a prince who seemed barely able to remember to speak, let alone feed himself.
Elide grimaced at the weathered witch leathers she still wore, her fraying gray cloak and scuffed boots, then glanced at her two companions in the alley. Indeed, they’d all seen better days.
“Any minute now,” Gavriel murmured, a tawny eye on the alley’s entrance. A towering, dark figure blended into the scant shadows at the half-crumbling archway, monitoring the bustling street beyond.
Elide didn’t look too long toward that figure. She’d been unable to stomach it these endless weeks. Unable to stomach him, or the unbearable ache in her chest.
Elide frowned at Gavriel. “We should have stopped for lunch.”
He jerked his chin to the worn bag sagging against the wall. “There’s an apple in my pack.”
Glancing toward the building rising above them, Elide sighed and reached for the pack, riffling through the spare clothes, rope, weapons, and various supplies until she yanked out the fat red-and-green apple. The last of the many they’d plucked from an orchard in a neighboring kingdom. Elide wordlessly extended it to the Fae lord.
Gavriel arched a golden brow.
Elide mirrored the gesture. “I can hear your stomach grumbling.”
Gavriel huffed a laugh and took the apple with an incline of his head before cleaning it on the sleeve of his pale jacket. “Indeed it is.”
Down the alley, Elide could have sworn the dark figure stiffened. She paid him no heed.
Gavriel bit into the apple, his canines flashing. Aedion Ashryver’s father—the resemblance was uncanny, though the similarities stopped at appearance. In the brief few days she’d spent with Aedion, he’d proved himself the opposite of the soft-spoken, thoughtful male.
She’d worried, after Asterin and Vesta had left them aboard the ship they’d sailed here, that she might have made a mistake in choosing to travel with three immortal males. That she’d be trampled underfoot.
But Gavriel had been kind from the start, making sure Elide ate enough and had blankets on frigid nights, teaching her to ride the horses they’d spent precious coin to purchase because Elide wouldn’t stand a chance of keeping up with them on foot, ankle or no. And for the times when they had to lead their horses over rough terrain, Gavriel had even braced her leg with his magic, his power a warm summer breeze against her skin.
She certainly wasn’t allowing Lorcan to do so for her.
She would never forget the sight of him crawling after Maeve once the queen had severed the blood oath. Crawling after Maeve like a shunned lover, like a broken dog desperate for its master. Aelin had been brutalized, their very location betrayed by Lorcan to Maeve, and still he tried to follow. Right through the sand still wet with Aelin’s blood.
Gavriel ate half the apple and offered Elide the rest. “You should eat, too.”
She frowned at the bruised purple beneath Gavriel’s eyes. Beneath her own, she had no doubt. Her cycle, at least, had come last month, despite the hard travel that burned up any reserves of food in her stomach.
That had been particularly mortifying. To explain to three warriors who could already smell the blood that she needed supplies. More frequent stops.
She hadn’t mentioned the cramping that twisted her gut, her back, and lashed down her thighs. She’d kept riding, kept her head down. She knew they would have stopped. Even Rowan would have stopped to let her rest. But every time they paused, Elide saw that iron box. Saw the whip, shining with blood, as it cracked through the air. Heard Aelin’s screaming.
She’d gone so Elide wouldn’t be taken. Had not hesitated to offer herself in Elide’s stead.
The thought alone kept Elide astride her mare. Those few days had been made slightly easier by the clean strips of linen that Gavriel and Rowan provided, undoubtedly from their own shirts. When they’d cut them up, she had no idea.
Elide bit into the apple, savoring the sweet, tart crispness. Rowan had left some coppers from a rapidly dwindling supply on a stump to account for the fruit they’d taken.
Soon they’d have to steal their suppers. Or sell their horses.
A thumping sounded from behind the sealed windows a level above, punctuated