Ronan
The hideout was exactly as I remember it: little more than a hunter’s ruin tucked against a slope of stone, its roof half-collapsed, its walls crooked.
But it was shelter, and after the fight in the woods, shelter was all that mattered.
I shoved aside broken branches and dragged what brush I could across the entrance, masking it with the scent of pine. My ears strained at every sound. I couldn’t afford mistakes, not with Lila so vulnerable.
She lay on a bed of furs I’d scrounged from the corner, her breathing shallow, skin too pale against the small fire I’d lit for warmth.
I’d cleaned the blood from her shoulder as best I could, but the wound still looked angry. She didn’t complain while I stitched, only set her jaw, sweat shining along her temple. Or when I set her write and
