Claiming the mind-bound human bride

Valeska Auden's I stood in my father's workshop, staring at the empty space where he usually left them. Rain beat against the roof, and thunder rumbled outside. Gero never went into the woods without his coat, especially in weather like this. He also never left his basket behind unless he planned to come back for it, but today his coat just laid here alongside the basket. He had promised to help me sort the briar roots that morning, but he never showed up. Nobody in the village seemed to know where he was. I finished tying a leather pouch of dried herbs and turned to my father. "Have you seen Gero today?" Dad stopped hammering and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "No. Why?" "His coat and basket are still lying here. He was supposed to help me sort the briar roots this morning." Dad glanced towards the door. "He's probably sheltering from the rain at his uncle's shed. Give him time to come back. Don't go looking for trouble, girl." "What if he isn't there?" Dad lowered his hammer. "Valeska—" "I'm just checking the lower fence line," I lied, pulling my oiled canvas coat over my shoulders and tying the pouch to my belt. He stared at me for a moment, his dark eyes warning me without saying a word. "Stay away from the boundary stone. The militia is on edge today. Julian has guards posted at every turn-off." "I know." I slipped out the back door before he could ask anything else. Ten minutes later, I reached the edge of the woods, with no idea what I was about to walk into. I dropped to my knees in the freezing mud, cold water soaking through my trousers. My breath came out in short puffs as I pushed the wet fern leaves aside, until my fingers went numb. I looked for anything: a moved rock, a broken twig, a thread caught on a bush. But there was nothing. Just black dirt and thick gray fog that made it hard to see more than a few steps ahead. "Gero!" My voice came out rough and hoarse. I'd been calling his name since sunrise. The sun had gone down hours ago, and now it was already the next afternoon. The white boundary stone stood nearby. Its warning symbols bleached bones and deep slashes were barely visible through the mist. I tightened my grip on the metal trowel. I thought of our small kitchen table, where Gero always pushed the bigger half of the stale loaf onto my plate. I could still picture his thumbs, always stained purple from the briar roots we'd spent hours digging out of the dirt together. Behind me, something metal hit wood. I turned around on my knees and grabbed the knife at my belt. My heart started beating fast. It wasn't a shifter. It was Jonas, one of the village guards. He stood about ten feet away, safely on the human side of the line. His metal chest guard shook against his leather shirt as he held his spear. The tip shook as he looked toward the trees. "Valeska, stop!" Jonas said, his voice shaking. He looked at the dark trees. "Get off the trail! Come back over the line now!" "He's still out here, Jonas," I said, my teeth shaking from the cold. I stood up and wiped my muddy hands on my pants. "His basket is gone from the shed. His winter coat is missing. He only came out here to gather herbs." “Then he’s dead!” Jonas shouted. His voice cracked as he looked back toward the safety of the village trail. He took a step away from the marker stone. Sweat ran down his forehead despite the cold mountain mist. “You know what lives up on the ridge, Valeska. They don’t keep prisoners. Three families have disappeared from the lower farms this month. The elders won’t risk a single guard for a boy who left the path.” I walked to the edge of the line and stopped beside the white stone. “He’s seventeen, Jonas! He ate dinner at your house three nights ago. He even gave you half his food!” Jonas swallowed and looked down at his boots. He stepped farther back onto the village path. “I’m not dying for him,” he muttered. His shoulders dropped as he let out a shaky breath. “Deputy Julian’s orders are clear. The treaty keeps us safe on our side. Once you cross that marker, you’re on your own. If the pack gets you, the gates stay shut.” I looked down at the white stone, then at the dark forest ahead. “Then don’t watch,” I whispered. My boot crossed the line. The air suddenly felt heavy. A sharp, wild smell filled my nose, and the hairs on my arms stood up. My stomach tightened. I forced myself to keep moving, taking slow breaths so my body wouldn’t freeze. I knelt beside a large rock and touched the crushed leaves of a plant. Sticky, milky sap still leaked from the broken stems. It was warm and thick against my skin. Something huge had stepped into the dirt here less than an hour ago. Ten minutes later, I found his tracks. One print stood out. His left heel had pressed deeper into the ground, just like the uneven steps Gero had taken since he broke his ankle on the winter ice two years ago. The tracks led straight toward the dark cliffs of Blackwood Ridge. Then the woods went silent. The wind stopped moving through the trees. No water dripped from the branches. All I could hear was my own heart pounding. A few yards ahead, a huge old oak blocked the path. Three deep, jagged marks ran down its trunk. Dark red sap leaked from the cuts. I froze. Three deep cuts ran down the oak's trunk, splitting the bark apart. Then I saw a small piece of dark cloth at the bottom of the tree. I moved closer and pulled it free from a broken piece of wood. It was part of Gero’s coat. I pressed the rough cloth to my lips to hold back a sob. I examined the cuts. They were too wide and uneven for claws, and the edges reminded me of the flat iron tool in my father's workshop. I rubbed the sap between my fingers. Gray dust clung to my skin. Rust. Whatever had damaged the tree had left more than claw marks behind. I turned the piece of cloth over in my hand. A silver thread was hanging from the edge. It had a small double-cross stitch that I knew well. I remembered last Tuesday. I had sat on the porch, fixing the tear in Gero’s sleeve after a berry bush caught it. The thread had not been torn during a fight. The small knot at the end had been opened carefully, one loop at a time. Someone had pulled it out with their fingers. The thread ran away from the tree, through the wet ferns like a thin line. It led down the steep, foggy slope toward the old iron mine. Then a sharp sound came from the deep ravine below. Clink. It sounded like heavy metal hitting a rock. Then I heard a low groan of pain.