Chapter 13

Rebekah

A few days later…

It’s the seventh day, and I stand before the gates of King Liam’s castle, my wooden cart beside me. As the stranger instructed, a guard from the castle has come to help with the delivery.

Trixie would’ve accompanied me, but she’s been having small cramps. Still, she promised that whenever I look to the sky, I’ll see an eagle circling above, and that will mean she’s with me. Strange girl, but I’ve come to count her as a true friend.

The gates creak open. They let me in. I help unload the heavy bags of wool we worked all night to prepare. It had to be ready. I promised. And now I'm fulfilling it. A small task to pay for doing the king's duty.

“Good morning, fair maiden.”

His voice drifts toward me, warm and familiar. My heart skips. The stranger.

I turn and see him strolling toward me again, dressed in hunting clothes. Always hunting, it seems. And still as handsome—no, more so—than I remember. Rugged. Self-assured. Poised. Calculative.

“Good morning, sir,” I say, brushing my hands on my skirt. “I’m sorry I’m late. We couldn’t gather as much wool as I would have liked, considering it's for the King. But give us another seven days, and I’m sure we’ll have the rest.”

He smiles, soft and understanding, and nods. Without a word, he joins me and the guard in unloading the rest. When we finish, he leans in and speaks quietly to the guard, who departs at once. I watch them, confused. Who is this man, that even the King’s own guard obeys him?

“How have you been?” he asks, his gaze fixed on me.

I try to hold his eyes, but it’s difficult. He’s too striking. It almost hurts to look at him directly.

The guard returns before I can think of what to say. He carries a wicker hamper, and another man leads forward a horse. The stranger takes the reins, then turns to me, hand extended.

“I want you to come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

I stare at his hand. I'm a maiden. Seen alone with a man, a stranger. I should refuse. I should be offended, maybe even afraid. But I’m not. Something inside me urges me to trust him. To follow. To go wherever this wind is blowing.

So I take his hand.

He lifts me onto the horse, his hands settling around my waist, gentle, careful, almost reverent. The contact sends a flutter through me. He climbs up behind me, the hamper passed into his arms. Then we ride.

He guides the horse through narrow paths and along worn trails. We pass cottages. People stare. I’ve never been to this part of the kingdom before. This is where the nobles live, beyond the hill that separates the rich from the poor. I feel exposed, like I don’t belong here. I shouldn't belong here.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

His voice is soft, warm velvet at my ear. I’m seated between his thighs, pressed back against his chest. The position is far too intimate for propriety, but I feel safe, like he’s shielding me from everything around us.

“Behind the hill,” I say shortly. “Like every other poor soul.”

Regret nips at me the moment the words leave my mouth. He’s quiet for a long moment. The horse carries us into the woods, thicker, darker. I’ve never been here before.

“These are the King’s hunting grounds,” he murmurs. “But there’s a quiet place ahead. We can talk there.”

His voice carries sadness. I want to ask about it, but I don’t.

We arrive at a sunlit glade, surrounded by trees. The light falls golden on the grass. He dismounts first, then helps me down. His hand lingers just a second too long. I squirm. Nervous.

He lays a cloth on the ground and unpacks the hamper. Cold meat. Bread. A flask of wine. A picnic?

I sit beside him. He passes me some bread, a slice of meat, and pours wine into a small wooden cup. I taste it. It’s smooth, unexpectedly sweet. Around us, the forest hums. The rustling leaves, birdsong, the whisper of breeze. The peace.

“The poor shouldn’t be living in such conditions,” he says suddenly. “But the King is surrounded by corrupt men.”

His voice carries weight, and something more, bitterness, maybe.

I glance at him. “You speak as if you know the King.”

“I do.” He smiles faintly. “I work for him.”

I nod slowly. “And what do you do for the King?”

He sips his wine. “I hunt. And I advise him on matters.”

I raise a brow. “Then you must’ve heard about the killings in Elywoods.”

His face shifts. “What killings?”

There’s steel in his voice now, enough to make me flinch.

“I… I heard the Queen killed the rebel leader,” I say carefully. “And now virgins are being slaughtered.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes grow distant, cold with thought.

“That wasn’t supposed to reach the villages,” he mutters. “We didn’t want to cause panic.”

There’s sorrow in his tone now. And something else, guilt? I can’t tell. But my heart aches for him all the same.

“You’d be surprised what people hear, even behind the hill,” I murmur. “Word travels fast when people are afraid.”

He turns to me, and the tightness in his face fades into a soft smile.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says.

Something in his voicegentle, genuine, makes me want to share.

“I’m Rebekah of Meadowland. My mother’s Renelda. We farm sheep. My father, Hosea, died before I could remember him. My grandmother raised us, but she’s gone too now. It’s just me and my mother.”

I pause, then add, “I have a new friend—Trixie. She wanted to come with me today, but she wasn’t well.”

When I say my mother’s name, something flickers in his eyes. Just for a moment. Then it’s gone.

We fall into a quiet rhythm, eating in silence. The woods seem to fold around us, a world apart from the one we came from.

Then he leans closer, voice a breath against the hush.

“Come dance with me tomorrow,” he whispers. “Just you and I. Under the moonlight. Wherever you choose.”