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Afeather was in her mouth.

Fluffy. Dry. Inexplicable. At first, Freya wasn’t sure what was in her mouth, but it felt like a feather. It could be nothing else.

She spat it out, and another drifted down to take its place. Only when she opened her eyes to bat it away did she understand three things in quick succession: the ceiling was not hers; the bed was not hers; and the arm lying across her ribs, heavy as a fallen oak and just as warm, was most certainly not hers.

She wanted to believe she was dreaming. This could not be real. Perhaps it was some terrible nightmare she was trapped in.

She went very still, trying not to panic, but with every moment she lay here, unsure of where she was, the fear continued to grow.

Feathers everywhere. On the pillow, in her hair, drifting in the thin grey light from a window she’d never seen before. A pillow had died in this room, violently. Her bodice was unlaced. Her stays were⁠—

She looked down. Her stays were on the floor, one strap looped over the leg of a chair like a hanged man. And on her left hand, catching the light every time she breathed, sat a heavy gold ring, worn smooth and stamped with the head of a wolf.

Think, Freya. Think about what happened last night. Try to remember what the hell ye did to get to this point.

All right, she needed to think. She needed to focus and try to remember where she had started.

First, she had left her brother’s. Yesterday. She had left Kaden’s castle at dawn with the carriage and two guards. Emily had packed her oatcakes. She had gazed at her warmly, telling her that she wished she could go with her to see Skye, but hers and Kaden’s youngest child was far too young for either of them to travel.

Skye’s bairn was coming any day, and Freya had meant to ride straight through. Only, the rain had turned the road to porridge, and the driver had said there was an inn, a decent one just over the rise.

She remembered the sign creaking. She remembered the smell of wet wool and fire. She remembered thinking the ale looked cloudy. The driver and both guards had vanished into the stables with a jug before she’d even shaken the rain from her cloak.

But bad ale was better than no ale, so she hadn’t thought anything of it before she had drunk… and drunk.

And then nothing. A wall, smooth and blank, where the rest of the night should have been. The more Freya tried to remember, the less she could.

Her head started to pound as she tried to remember what had happened, so she gave up, deciding it was better to leave it be. She’d have to recollect her memory at another time then.

She carefully shifted an inch to the left, and the arm tightened.

Not roughly. Not the way a man grabbed. More the way a hound snuggled closer when it was cold: absent, instinctive, as if she were something he’d decided to keep in his sleep. Which was somehow worse.

Freya let out a squeak of surprise. It hadn’t been enough to hurt her, but it still shocked her nonetheless.

She wrapped both hands around his wrist and pulled.

The arm did not move. No matter how hard she tried to get the arm off her, she couldn’t. It held firmly, refusing to let go.

She braced her heel against the mattress and pulled harder. The arm did not move.

Good Lord, what was he made of? She could feel the muscle under her palms, dense and unyielding as the beam of a barn, and a treacherous part of her mind noted that his skin was very warm and he smelled of woodsmoke and horse.

She told that part of her mind to hold its tongue.

Slide, then. If she couldn’t lift his arm, she’d slide under it. It was the safer option. Besides, she didn’t want to wake him up. Waking him up would mean she’d have to have a conversation she definitely didn’t want right now.

Freya was, if nothing else, clever. When she couldn’t find a way, she found another. It was what she had always done in her life, and there was no reason she wouldn’t keep doing it now.

It took an age. She wriggled down the bed like an eel, feathers sticking to her damp neck, until the arm slid from her ribs to her shoulders to her hair, and then she was free, kneeling on the cold boards in her shift with her heart going like a smith’s hammer.

Behind her, the stranger stirred, muttered something, and rolled onto his back. Freya should have just kept going, but for some reason, she didn’t. There was truly something wrong with her in that moment.

She turned and looked at him. He was…

Well, he was a great deal of man, was what he was. Black hair spilled across the pillow, long enough to braid. A beard framed his jaw, dark and unkempt. His chest rose and fell beneath the blankets like a hillside, marked by an old, pale scar that ran from his collarbone to his ribs. His face in sleep was almost gentle, all hard lines gone soft, a faint crease between his eyebrows as if even his dreams were arguing with him.