“He must be—the old man must be forcing him,” she managed to say. The Nicholas she knew could barely stand to be in the same breathing space as the man, let alone tolerate his touch.
The Nicholas you knew for a month?
No. No. No. Etta shoved the thought away. He’d handed her his heart in complete trust, and she knew the shape of it, how heavily it was weighted with hatred and shattering sadness toward this family. This wasn’t a betrayal—the only betrayal would be hers, if she believed he was doing anything other than finding a way to survive.
She blew out a harsh breath, gathering up her small bag of supplies. The landscape of Iceland had a cool, reserved kind of beauty, but its terrain was unpredictable, roughly hewn, as if shaped by the travels of giants. They’d come down a worn path that would eventually lead to the beach below, and, if she continued down it just a bit more, she might be able to get close enough to somehow catch Nicholas’s attention without any of the Ironwoods noticing.
“He’s treating him like…” Julian began, still sitting on the ground where she had left him.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Come on.”
He turned, and for once she couldn’t read his expression. “He’s treating him like the way he used to handle my father.”
“Nicholas is?”
He shook his head. “Grandfather. That’s not a prisoner on that beach. That’s an heir.”
The words flew at her like an arrow. Etta took off, continuing up the path, to avoid it landing. She wrapped the heavy, drab wool coat around her tightly, and looked up to find that the rain had turned to snow, and was catching on her shoulders and hair.
Etta took the bend in the trail at a run, scrambling on hands and feet to avoid slipping on the ice and moss. The waves broke below her, snapping against the earth, sounding more and more like the blood rushing through her ears. She kept her eyes on Nicholas below, trying to keep up with him and the others before they disappeared into the cave.
Two hands caught her by the shoulders and swung her back around, hard enough that her feet slipped out from beneath her. Etta slammed onto the uneven ground, the air exploding out of her in a cloud of white. She wheezed painfully, trying to fill her lungs, to rise back up, but she was pinned in place by the kiss of a blade against her exposed throat.
It pulled back suddenly, and the weight that had crashed down on her chest lifted with a gasp. By the time the burst of light cleared from Etta’s eyes and she could lift a hand to clear the snow from her lashes, a familiar face was gazing down at her in horror, partially disguised by an impressive-looking leather eye patch.
Her mind understood what she was seeing—who she was seeing—but couldn’t make sense of it: the short hair, the shirt and trousers, the boots. Etta scrambled back as best she could, trying to put distance between her and Sophia, until her hand closed around a shard of stone. She thrust it between them to ward the girl off.
“Soph…ia?” came the weak voice above them.
Julian stood on the path, a short distance from them. When Sophia turned toward him, rising to her feet, his face seemed to crumble. He didn’t just look remorseful—he looked as if he wanted nothing more than for a bolt of lightning to blow him off the face of the hill.
“I guess the obvious question is, how the hell are you alive?” Sophia’s voice sounded as if it had been rubbed raw.
Julian dared to take another step toward her, holding out a hand, as if he expected her to take it. Sophia stared at it the way a wolf would assess whether or not it was worth chasing a hare.
“Oh, that—well, old girl—Soph, light of my life—” Julian seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the eye patch. There was an unhealthy sheen to his face, almost feverish, when the attention of the group finally shifted to him.
“You,” she interjected, “I know about. I’m speaking to you, Linden.”
“Me?” Etta repeated. “I’ll admit I had a couple close calls, but—wait, what?”
“You were dead. D-E-A-D. As in, finished, gone to meet your maker, et cetera,” Sophia said. “Your father issued a challenge to Ironwood. He demanded satisfaction for your murder at his men’s hands.”
“My murder?” Etta repeated, hauling herself back up to her feet, only to have Sophia tug her and Julian back down to their knees.
“Oh,” Julian said, turning to her. “Didn’t you tell me that your father said he had a way of keeping Ironwood off your tail? How better to do that than to confuse Ironwood into thinking you were already dead?”
“That’s a leap,” Etta said, even as something squirmed in her stomach.
“He kept it secret from you?” Sophia asked, looking unimpressed. “It’s true, though. The only reason Ironwood would ever leave you alone is if he thought you were already dead, and he’d missed out on the fun of killing you himself.”
Etta’s eyes narrowed. “Ironwood, huh? Not Grandfather?”
The other girl drew back, her visible eye narrowing. In Etta’s experience, Sophia had defended herself by deflection, by attacking. This time, Etta was prepared for it.
“Aaaand I’m just going to stand over here,” Julian said, inching away. Etta cast him an irritated look. He cocked a brow in reply. “You court the dragon, you get burned, kiddo.”
“What are you doing here?” Etta asked. “Why are you in disguise?”
Sophia laughed then. An ugly, exhausted sound. She flicked her leather eye patch up, revealing a scarred, empty socket. Julian either coughed into his fist or tried to muffle his retch. In either case, it wasn’t well received.