Author's Note: 

Hopefully I don't lose you in this chapter. Sorry for late update! Busy bee this week! :D Please, enjoy all! 

The same moment a deafening howl ripped through the air, the first drop of rain hit Marjorie's warm cheek. It stayed there, and a second later, a splatter of blood joined it.

She moved into frantic motion, not positive of where to place her feet or hands, but knowing that it mattered what she did next. Her hands, small against the wide surface of Petyr's bicep, wrapped around his arm. She yanked back, using every ounce of strength to halt his rage.

"You will kill him!" Marjorie screamed.

A crack of thunder released from above them. Both men had little reaction to the noise, but Marjorie's bone rattled from the power of the rising storm.

She leapt on Petyr's back in an attempt to bring him down. Beneath the blade of his axe, Fenris whined in growing pain. "Do you hear me, Petyr!" Marjorie continued. Her lips moved right above the shell of his ear, forcing every single word into his mind.

Either Petyr could not hear her above the rushing blood in his eardrums, or he was lost to the adrenaline of a fight. He took the blade out of Fenris's shoulder and swung his arm backward. This time, he aimed for the Wolf's temple.

And Petyr's mark was nearly always true.

Marjorie didn't think. She acted.

Her hands thrusted forward and wrapped around the hilt of the hatchet. A burst of pain slid through the tips of her finger-pads—the edge of the blade narrowly missed the delicate tendons in her palms. She yanked hard against the strength of Petyr. For the most part, it was useless.

But he noticed the unwelcome drag in his weapon and turned around to face the young woman. Horror flashed through his dark eyes before he dropped the hatchet. It cracked hard against the cobblestone path below. On its blade, Fenris's and Marjorie's blood mixed together in a seamless mess of red.

"Marjorie—" Petyr rushed out. Every single thought of the Wolf dissipated completely. Suddenly, all he could see was Marjorie.

His gaze slid up and down her body, checking her over for any kind of injury and froze at the sight of her ruined hands. With gentle fingers, he pulled her palms forward by her slender wrists.

She tried hard not to make a sound of discomfort, but it was impossible. Her sliced skin burned from the cold winter air.

"I told you to stop," she whispered.

His hands trembled as if he were the one bleeding. He scrambled into the pockets of his trousers and fished out a thick handkerchief made from canvas. He pressed it over her palms with a gentle touch and cursed as she squealed from pain.

"Move," a deep voice said from behind Petyr. "Pushing the dirt back into her wound will do nothing but cause infection."

Marjorie's gaze shifted to the man standing behind her friend. Fenris was naked, but seemingly unbothered by the lack of clothing. If it weren't for the pain traveling through her hand, to her wrist and finally decreasing to a light throb in her shoulder joint, she would have allowed herself to take in the sight of his bareness. Underneath his clothes, he was more muscular than he appeared while dressed in one of his silk tunics. Thin, dark scars lined nearly every inch of his chest, and Marjorie couldn't imagine how a man so young could earn so many.

Despite the fresh blood pouring out of his open wound, Fenris swatted Petyr's hands away. His warm fingers replaced the trembling touch of Petyr. He pressed gently around the tender cut, a crease between his eyes deepened

"You are hurt," she whispered.

"Trust me, I will be fine," Fenris said in a hard voice. "Where is your Devilhair?"

Marjorie nodded in the direction of the basket on her elbow. He flipped open the weaved lid and pushed his hand into one of the glass jars.

"Do you have water?" He turned to Petyr.

The Woodsman stood in a perfect stillness. His pink mouth was open wide, but no noise came out.

"Boy!" Fenris shouted. "Water!"

Petyr flew into motion, as if he only just understood the words of Fenris. His hand glided over to his belt, where a leather-skin bottle hung from a loop. He pushed it into Fenris's direction.

The man pulled it open with his mouth and tipped it over. Lukewarm water rushed over her throbbing wound, sending her into new waves of pain. She clenched her teeth together and then opened her mouth wide, a loud, deep scream boiling in her belly.

His hand came crashing forward over her lips, keeping her pain locked inside.

"I know it hurts, but do your best to be quiet," he said. "There is danger near."

She fought against his touch, but slowly, allowed her yell to fill up the space of his hand. His palms tasted warm and salty underneath her tongue. Hidden beneath the cold, metallic stench of blood was something sweeter, something that she did not have a name for. It was a light earthy smell, like the deeper, muskier tones were washed away by water.

The ocean.

She held onto that thought, allowing that to comfort her as he continued to dress her wound.

"Now, this will hurt," Fenris whispered in her ear. His breath was hot against her skin. "I apologize, little red."

He pressed a clump of dried Devilhair into the open wounds of her palms. Blind, white pain clouded all of her senses. All she knew were the two, deep slashes on her hands. The ocean was gone, now replaced by a curdling, red sea.

"You are hurting her!" Petyr said, somewhere far from where she lay in Fenris's arms but close enough to wrap his hand around the other man's wrist.

"I know," Fenris replied through tight, clenching teeth. "But the pain will stop soon, the Devilhair—"

Marjorie stopped listening. His deep voice faded away until it turned into a muted hum. There was a strident, beating river of blood in her ears. It only grew louder as the tensions between Petyr and Fenris expanded over her like a suffocating, inescapable fog.

And then, an unexpected clarity overtook her.

The thrumming pain in her hands faded. The fog lifted.

"See, it is working," Fenris said.

She turned to the handsome man, only just realizing there was sturdy ground beneath her, and strong arms wrapped around her once-trembling shoulders.

"Fenris," she whispered. "How? I don't understand."

"It is all the Devilhair," Petyr answered before Fenris had a chance to speak. "I understand now why some would give their souls for the damn thing."

The herb took away most of the pain, until the wound in her hand felt like nothing more than tiny, random pinpricks. She stretched out her fingers, testing to see how much motion she still possessed.

Marjorie released a pained hiss. It did little for her range of motion.

"I don't care for your clever little trick with the Devilhair," Petyr announced. His shoulders were wide and broad, his chest puffed out as though he wanted to seem bigger next to Fenris. "You are the Wolf, are you not?"

Fenris turned to Petyr, his unearthly, gray gaze landing on his face with amusement.

"Living and breathing," he confessed with a smile.

"And you knew?" Petyr turned to Marjorie. Although there was anger in his words, the glassy surface of his eyes betrayed him. There was a sadness present in his voice that Marjorie never heard before.

"Only just for the night," she whispered, unable to lie to him.

"You met him in the woods?" he asked. But it was not a question. He scraped a hand over the bottom of his face and dragged it through his prickling facial hair. He knew the answer.

"Yes," Marjorie said. "But we only crossed paths by pure chance—"

Petyr nodded at her words, showing no sign of surprise. That hurt Marjorie more than she expected.

"So, Wolf," Petyr said, nodding to where Fenris stood, leaning against a tree, arms crossed and still, completely bare. Marjorie kept her gaze above the line of the man's bloody shoulders, desperate not to be caught with wandering eyes.

"So, Woodsman," Fenris mocked. There was an unfamiliar annoyance in his tone, like he had little time to waste on Petyr.

Petyr's jaw clenched at his mockery and pointed back to where Blanchette's body lay, still dead and mangled.

"Why?" It was the only word that left Petyr's lips.

Marjorie held her breath, waiting for Fenris's answer. She clung to hope—for some reason, refusing to believe he could be capable of tearing his claws into Blanchette's belly and stealing her last breath with a bite to her twig-like neck.

"Petyr..." Marjorie trailed off once Fenris's silence continued.

"I said why, Wolf," The Woodsman hissed, ignoring his name.

"This is not my work," Fenris said. He refused to level his gaze with Petyr, instead, his eyes remained on Marjorie's face. He was studying her, watching for her reaction.

She wondered what he might see. If he paid attention to her gritted teeth, he might discover anger. But if he looked down to her tapping feet, he would see her anxiety surfacing.

"I forget," Petyr growled. "The moon has yet to rise. A few more hours, and then you can pounce."

Fenris released a dark chuckle at his words. For a moment, Marjorie saw only a wolf.

"You have no idea the meaning behind your words, Woodsman," Fenris whispered.

"Then, please, Fenris," Marjorie rushed out. "Do enlighten us." She closed the distance between them and pressed the tips of her fingers over his good shoulder. The dark skin there was perfect aside for a few rigid scars branding him.

"You believe I killed her?" Fenris's voice rose in disbelief, as if he expected her to take his side.

There was a tug in her chest. She closed her eyes to ignore it, to push the sound of his disappointment away, but only found herself imagining the cool steadiness of his gray gaze.

"You have killed before," Marjorie whispered.

The bluntness of her words hit him like a slap to the face. His handsome features twisted into an ugly expression of anger, before falling back into a cool, distant smile.

"I should have never revealed myself to you," he said. His eyes did not reach her anymore. Suddenly, Marjorie went cold, as if the sun had turned away from her. "That is clear to me now."

"I... I don't understand." She ached to push her wounded hands into the long, tendrils of his dark curls, but she kept her desire hidden.

"You are right though, in a way, I am responsible for this death," he whispered. "I should have known the moment she arrived in your Village. I should have run to my forest. I should have counted each head of my Fewfolk."

"What are you saying?" Petyr asked. He inched closer to Marjorie, as if he feared the next moves of the Wolf.

"I did not kill Blanchette," he confessed. Her name ran over his tongue like a familiar thing. But neither Marjorie nor Petyr had uttered it. He pushed himself away from Marjorie's feather-light touch and walked onto the cobblestone path, where Blanchette lay, staring into the sky with gazeless eyes.

"I do not kill my forest, not any part of it," he said. He leaned down to Blanchette's crumpled body and wiped away a spatter of blood on her cheek. He was gentle as he did it, his fingers trembled with his restraint.

"If you did not kill Blanchette, then who did?" Marjorie didn't like how the question settled between them. The air between them was alive with cracking energy from the approaching storm. The spontaneous droplets of rain steadily increased in volume until the sprinkle was replaced by a heavy sheet of rushing water.

"Think, Marjorie," he said. He stood from Blanchette's body and rushed toward her. The rain stuck to his bare chest, and his dark hair flattened into a heavy blanket of weighted curls. "I know you can feel it. There is something inside you that knew."

"Knew what?" She rushed out.

"Knew that I was different, knew that Vivian was different," he revealed in a tight tone. "What you have inside of you isn't just a calling to Beyond, it's something only few have. You have a Spark of Magick in you, Marjorie."

A Spark.

She knew what it meant. In the Village, the title was treated like a bad word. But among the Fewfolk, it was a common thread that connected them to the forest and its many secrets. It was an ember that bound her to creatures like Fenris—and made her an outcast among the people she loved and grew alongside.

She closed her eyes. Without her sight, she could pretend the cold rain was just ocean spray. But the illusion disappeared once the droplets spilled over her lips, into her mouth with a dullness that was closer to dirt than sea-salt.

"You didn't kill Blanchette," she whispered. "Vivian did."

Author's Note: 

Did it make sense or? I'm sorry if it didn't. I'm trying to make this book thrilling, hopefully my aim is true. Thank you again for your comments and votes, I appreciate everything and LOVEEEE your feedback. It makes a sad girl happy. 

Also-- if you haven't already, please follow my instagram @ authorjunevalentine to see exclusive content and real-time updates on what I'm working on. 

(It's only a month out for the Watty's deadline. My body is tensing.)