Page 96 of Spar of Hearts

“Get some rest. I’ll be along once the fire dies down.”

The fire was plenty dim. It was his emotions that needed a cold splash. If he slept by her side one more night, he feared they would flare out of control, and he would overwhelm her with the fanciful words that fizzled on the end of his tongue whenever he looked into her eyes.

Forget Eteross. Forget Valeria. Forget the Divine-forsaken cage, Count Scorer—forget everything.

Sail with me, Anya.

He shook his head, then raked a hand through his hair and groaned. He couldn’t place such a heavy burden on her heart. But his chest threatened to burst if he kept it to himself any longer.

Regardless, it was best to keep his distance. And besides, sleeping by the fire didn’t sound all that bad. It would be just like his campaign days. Once Anya stilled, he reclined against the log and stared up at the tree-patched stars. The few constellations he knew swirled as sleep overcame him until every one was a wolf, running and prancing through a yellow field of dandelions. The forms gained color, fur, and shining eyes as the starry sky gave way to a moonlit field—and he was a child again, observing the revelry from the peony bushes. His chest felt light again, unsullied by his granddad’s blood or his father’s vitriol.

A small, golden wolf pup watched the pack from afar, hidden among the pink and white peonies, just like he was. Every few moments, her paws timidly pressed forward, then retreated, then again, and again. When she finally took a few brave steps forward, a commanding voice shouted, “Anya!”

The other wolves fled through the field into the woods. The golden flowers withered and crumpled as they ran, leaving a cloud of dandelion puffs in their wake.

Anya made little howling cries, desperately trying to follow, but an invisible force tugged her tail and yanked her back.

Wait for me! Please, please, it hurts…I need to run…I need to run with you…

Roderick burst out of the bushes. “Stop it!” he yelled. “Stop it! Let her go!”

The ghostly tugging stopped, and pup-Anya fell nose first into the grass. But the wolves were too far gone. As soon as Roderick got close enough, he slid on his knees the rest of the way and threw his arms around her hackles.

I want to run, Anya whimpered. I need to run. I have to run.

Pack. Pack. Pack.

I need my pack.

Roderick shot up as the strange call of the loons they heard on the beach rang out. Ordinarily, he would have found it rather obnoxious at this hour. But now the call reminded him of their moment on the sand, the boundless glee in her laugh as he poked her toes in the sand, and the tender kiss she’d pressed on his probably-too-scruffy cheek. The memory soothed the sudden jolt from the dream.

His knightly training quickly took over, prompting him to do something. Anything. So he stood and walked the perimeter of their pitiful camp a few times, staring into the shadowy woods. As a knight, he was taught to guard against the dark, question what waited around every corner. Have your sword at the ready, for the unknown is your biggest enemy.

But now, he could see why Anya loved the dark. It had a sort of softness to it. The moonlight caressed everything under its wing with a gentle glow, bringing life to something he once thought cold, worth little more than the detritus of the tide the moon washed ashore.

The truth was all the more beautiful.

He cast a glance at Anya, who was curled up under the lean-to in a rather dog-like position. A smile curved his lips. He couldn’t say that aloud.

His face paled as he caught her twitch—no—writhe.

“Agh…” Anya groaned softly, almost inaudibly, then growled low in her chest. He crept quietly to the facade of the shelter, not wanting to scare her if she woke with a start. His eyes grew wide at the sight of wolf teeth jamming their way into her gums and patches of fur spreading on her neck. Her claws grew longer, then receded, then dug into the ground as she whimpered.

Roderick cautiously knelt beside her, but his pulse kicked up. A twig snapped under his knee. Anya’s golden eyes popped open, pupils thin as needles.

“Don’t look at me,” she hissed through gritted teeth, voice hardly more than a growl. The muscles under the sleeves of her dress rippled and flexed, bursting the seams.

“What’s happening?” He tried to calm the panic in his tone, but failed spectacularly as a quiver broke his words. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

“It’s the…moon…It’s stronger here…but I can control it…give me…a minute…grrah…” Fur sprouted on her cheeks and hands like grass in a barren field.

A little ease worked through the tension in his shoulders. She wasn’t dying, or sick, or even in danger. She was fighting the wolf beneath her skin tooth and nail.

She was fighting herself.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Let it happen. This is who you are. If you want to run, I’ll make a way for you. If you want to howl, I want to listen.”

Her were-voice flowed into his mind between words. Anya whimpered and hid her face with furry, clawed hands.