Chapter 7: An Unwanted Protector

Chapter 7: An Unwanted Protector

The wind cut through the dense forest, sharp and biting. Isadora pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she followed Killian along the narrow path. They had ridden for hours in silence, the weight of their circumstances pressing down like an iron vice. The only sound was the rhythmic clopping of their horses and the distant rustling of unseen creatures.

Killian rode ahead, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the trees. Whether he was searching for danger or avoiding her gaze, she couldn't tell.

When he finally slowed, she looked up. A small, weathered hunting lodge stood between the towering pines. Its wooden walls bore the marks of time, but it looked sturdy.

"We stay here tonight," Killian said, dismounting with practiced ease. "It's safe."

Isadora slid off her horse, her muscles protesting the movement. "Safe?" she echoed, sweeping her gaze over the clearing. "That's a luxury I no longer believe in."

Killian didn't acknowledge her skepticism as he led the horses to a makeshift stable. She followed him inside, noting the sparse furnishings—a wooden table, a few chairs, and a cold hearth. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and stone.

Killian moved to the fireplace, striking a flame to life. The glow cast flickering shadows over his face, sharpening his features.

"How do you know about this place?" she asked, her voice quieter than before.

He didn't look up. "It belonged to my father."

That gave her pause. Killian rarely spoke of his past, and when he did, it was with indifference. His father had been a man whispered about in court—a leader feared more than respected.

She lowered herself into a chair, exhaustion creeping into her limbs. The attack on the estate still haunted her, the smell of blood clinging to her memory. She had no allies left. And the only person standing between her and death was the one man she had sworn to despise.

Her gaze drifted back to Killian. His movements had slowed, a stiffness settling into his shoulders. Then she saw it—the dark stain spreading across his shirt.

"You're hurt."

Killian barely glanced at her. "It's nothing."

She frowned. "You're bleeding through your clothes."

He exhaled slowly, as if the effort of responding drained him. "An old wound. It reopened."

Logic told her to let him suffer, to let him feel even an ounce of the helplessness she had endured. But if he collapsed from blood loss, she would be alone.

She sighed. "Take off your coat."

Killian raised a brow. "Why?"

"Because if you die here, I'll be stuck dragging your corpse through the woods."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face before vanishing. He unbuckled his coat, wincing slightly as he shrugged it off. The white linen of his shirt was soaked with crimson.

Isadora grabbed a cloth from a nearby shelf, dampening it with water before kneeling beside him. Her fingers brushed against his skin as she pressed the cloth to his side. His muscles tensed, but he didn't pull away.

She worked in silence, her movements careful but firm. His breathing remained steady, though she felt the way his body resisted the pain.

Finally, he spoke. "You didn't have to do this."

She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "No, but I need you alive long enough to get answers."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but something softer lurked beneath it. "Always thinking ahead."

She ignored the remark, finishing the bandage with a tight knot. "Don't tear it open again. I won't fix it twice."

Killian didn't respond, only watching her with an intensity that made her uneasy. The silence between them shifted—not quite hostile, not quite comfortable. Something unspoken lingered in the space between them.

Before she could dwell on it, a soft thud echoed from the door.

Both of them tensed. Killian's hand was on his sword in an instant. Isadora felt her pulse quicken as she reached for her dagger.

Killian moved first, crossing the room in a few quick strides. He opened the door cautiously, his body taut.

There was no one there.

But at the threshold, a single envelope lay on the ground.

Killian bent down, his fingers tracing the wax seal. His expression darkened.

Isadora stood, her breath shallow. "What is it?"

He turned the letter over, his grip tightening. Then, without a word, he tossed it onto the table.

The message was written in precise, elegant handwriting.

You are both running out of time.

The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across the walls.

Isadora swallowed, unease coiling in her gut.

"Someone knows we're here," she whispered.

Killian's jaw tightened, his gaze locked on the letter.

"Yes," he murmured. "And they're watching."

A horse's distant cry echoes through the forest. Footsteps rustle in the underbrush. Whoever sent the letter—they haven't left.