Clipped

Chapter 8.

​Fenris watched her for a long, silent moment, his blue-gold eyes tracing the way her small hands trembled as she clutched the wooden spoon. The orange light of the hearth fire danced in the deep blue of her hair, making her look less like a broken thing and more like a fragment of the night sky fallen to earth.

​"Get used to it, Rhiannon," he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady thrum that cut through the noise of the Great Hall. "The hunger, the shame- that’s the past. Here, you eat until you’re full. You sleep until you’re rested. That is the new law."

​Rhiannon swallowed a mouthful of the rich venison, the heat of it blooming in her chest, though it felt like a heavy stone in her shrunken stomach. She looked up at him, her dark green eyes narrowing. The nutrition was already beginning to clear the fog in her mind, and with clarity came the sharp, biting edge of suspicion.

​"Why?" she asked, the word cutting through the air like a blade.

​Fenris tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Why what?"

​"Why me?" Rhiannon leaned forward, her tiny frame looking absurdly small against the massive timber table. "You walked into that brothel with three bags of gold. You could have bought five healthy girls. You could have saved Malory, or Lyra- women who still have their strength, who could actually serve your pack or work your lands. Instead, you spent a fortune on a clipped fairy who can’t even touch a tree without screaming."

​She set the spoon down with a hollow clack. "There were a dozen others, Fenris. Why did you choose the most broken girl in the room?"

​Fenris didn't flinch. He leaned back, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light around them. He looked toward the main tables, where his pack was feasting, their laughter raw and wild.

​"I’ve spent my life surrounded by strength, Rhiannon," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "The Nightshades are the most ruthless pack in the North because we don't tolerate weakness. But when I saw you standing there... looking like a wilted flower that had forgotten what it was like to bloom... I decided I wanted to see if I could mend it. I wanted to help the one who looked like she had the least hope left."

​It was a good answer. It was a hero's answer. But as he said it, a muscle in his jaw ticked, and he looked away, his gaze fixing on the roaring fire.

​Rhiannon watched him, her instincts screaming. In the brothel, she had learned to read men like open scrolls- their desires, their lies, the subtle shifts in their scent when they wanted something they weren't saying. Fenris didn't smell like a liar, but he didn't smell like a saint either. There was a tether between them, a strange, invisible pull that made her skin prickle whenever he moved, but she chalked it up to the trauma of her new surroundings. She felt nothing for him but a cold, wary gratitude.

​To her, he was a savior who had merely traded her iron cage for an even bigger one.

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy with things unsaid. Fenris didn’t move, but the sheer intensity of his presence seemed to pulse against Rhiannon’s skin, a low-frequency hum that she couldn't quite name. She waited for the catch. She waited for him to tell her she’d be expected to clean the Great Hall or tend to the wounded or- more likely, warm his bed when the mountain chill became too much.

​"Is that all?" Rhiannon asked, her voice skeptical, eyes searching his face for the flicker of a hidden agenda. "A charity project? The Great Alpha of the Nightshades is just a man with a soft heart for tragic stories?"

​"Is it so hard to believe that someone might want to see you whole again?" Fenris countered. His blue-gold eyes snapped back to hers, burning with an intensity that made the breath hitch in her throat.

​"Yes," she said flatly, her voice like the strike of flint on stone. "In my experience, 'whole' things are just easier to break a second time. If you’re waiting for me to be grateful, Fenris, you’ll be waiting a long time. My gratitude was stripped away along with my pride."

​Fenris didn't look offended. If anything, a flash of something that looked like grim respect crossed his features. He didn't know the details of her exile- he didn't know about the iron shears or the stolen wand. He saw only the jagged, angry scars on her back and the way her eyes darted toward the exits every time a chair scraped against the floor. He assumed her wings had been destroyed, burnt or hacked away by whatever cruel fate had tossed her into Gorgon's lap.

​"I’m not asking for gratitude," he said, his voice turning gruff as he pushed his own untouched plate aside. "I’m asking you to finish your dinner. You’re too thin, Rhiannon. It’s hard to find the 'you' inside when there’s so little of you left to fight back."

​Rhiannon looked back at her stew. The pleasure of the food was starting to turn into a dull, heavy ache as her body struggled to process the richness. Her skin felt too tight, her nerves frayed by the sensory overload of the Hall.

​"I want to see the room," she said, her voice dropping to a small, tired whisper. "The one with the lock on the inside."

​Fenris stood up immediately, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the entire room. "Of course."

​He led her through the winding stone corridors of the Hall, up a set of stairs carved directly into the heart of the cliffside. The air grew cooler here, smelling of cedar and mountain air. He stopped at a heavy oak door at the very end of a high gallery, isolated from the noise of the pack below. He reached into a leather pouch at his belt and handed her a forged iron key. It was heavy, cold, and felt like a weapon in her palm.

​"This is yours," he said. "There is a bath drawn inside, and fresh clothes. Wool and linen- nothing for show. Just clothes to keep you warm."

​Rhiannon pushed the door open. The room was large, filled with the scent of lavender and dried herbs. A massive bed sat in the corner, covered in thick bear-pelts and soft, hand-woven quilts. And there, on the inside of the door, was a heavy iron bolt.

​She turned to find Fenris standing in the hallway, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn't try to cross the threshold. He stayed in the shadows of the corridor, looking like he was guarding a tomb he wasn't allowed to enter.

​"Goodnight, Rhiannon," he said, his voice echoing softly.

​"Fenris?" she called out before he could turn away.

​"Yes?"

​"Why didn't you ask?" she asked, her hand hovering over the scars on her back, hidden beneath her rags. "Most men ask. They want to know the story behind the scars. They want to know what the 'fallen' fairy lost."

​Fenris looked at her, his blue-gold eyes softening with a sorrow that felt far too deep for a stranger. "Because it doesn't matter how you lost them, Rhiannon. It only matters that you have to walk now. And I intend to make sure the ground beneath your feet is steady."

​He turned and walked away, his heavy boots echoing on the stone until the sound faded into the distance. Rhiannon watched the empty hallway for a long minute, her heart hammering. Then, she stepped back into the room and slammed the bolt shut.

​The sound of the iron sliding into place was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.

​She leaned against the door, closing her eyes. She expected to feel relief, but instead, she felt a strange, hollow throb in her chest- a whisper of a connection she didn't want and couldn't name. She felt like a bird that had been moved from a cage to a courtyard; she still couldn't fly, and the walls were still there, even if they were made of trees instead of iron.

​I am not yours, she whispered to the empty, quiet room. I am nobody's.

​But as she sank into the warm water of the bath, the angry shouting of the trees outside seemed to soften, just a little, as if the forest was finally holding its breath, waiting to see if the girl with the blue hair would last until morning.