Bolin let her go. "Why don't you just leave me alone?"
He didn't answer. Never mind Ciara didn’t want the future her aunt had planned for her. Never mind Ciara didn't need Bolin's help or protection.
You need no one's protection, lady .
Her eyes widened at the whisper of a voice in her head. Donovan?
Let me come to you. I will take you wherever you chose to go.
"Ciara!" Bolin’s voice bore similarities to the warning growl of a wolf. "Do not call to him," he said, enunciating each word very clearly.
She blinked. "I'm not. I-"
"Get on your horse."
He cannot hold you, lady. It is your choice .
"No." Whether to Donovan or to Bolin Ciara couldn't say. She felt suddenly light-headed. Her vision swam, and her thoughts scattered in a swirl of images: Meriol, the funeral pyre, Scar-face. Her arm still tickled as though spiders raced across her skin, and Bolin now stood far too close. She backed a step. Her breath fought her, becoming as uncontrollable as her thoughts.
Bolin reclaimed her arm and propelled her toward Fane. He swung her into the saddle before mounting Sandeen, and then they were heading back into the woods. Ciara sucked in a breath and then another. As her head cleared she felt a little less inclined than the previous evening to be nothing more than baggage. She sat deep in the saddle, shifting her weight back which caused Fane to plant his front feet and come to a sudden halt. Sandeen spun as the lead rope went taut, and Ciara couldn't decide who she'd irritated more -- the grey stallion, or the man on his back. Sandeen crowded forward, toward Fane, and the gelding side-stepped to get out of the way, ears flat, until he ran out of room. Ciara cried out, her leg trapped between horse and tree.
"I've had enough," Bolin warned.
Ciara tried pushing off the tree with her hand but Fane refused to budge. "You're hurting my leg."
"Would you prefer to be hog-tied and slung over Fane’s back?"
Ciara didn't answer fast enough, and Sandeen took another step forward.
"Bolin, stop!"
He hesitated, glowering at her over Sandeen’s head and Ciara held her breath. Without any visible cue, the grey swung around on his haunches. Fane lurched after them as the lead pulled tight, his ears still back and his gait stiff -- even less willing than Ciara to follow complacently after a horse that could easily kill him. But they went no more than a few paces before Bolin reined in. Ciara went as quiet and tense as Fane, both braced for another face-off neither wanted.
It didn't come. Nothing did. Bolin sat rigid on Sandeen’s back until Ciara began to wonder if he had lost his way. When he turned the stallion, Fane leaned back against the rope, but Bolin didn’t advance on them again. He frowned, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her.
"Do you know anything of your birth father?"
Ciara blinked. "My what?"
"Did your mother never tell you?" he persisted.
Ciara shook her head. "It didn’t matter. Not to me. Marcus was the only father I have ever known."
"It does matter." He looked away in disgust.
"Bolin-"
He looked back at her, a shadow playing across his face. "It matters a great deal."
He dismounted and came toward her, and when Ciara inadvertently flinched his frown deepened. He stood at Fane's shoulder, one hand absently stroking the gelding's chest. Ciara could feel through the saddle the effect Bolin’s touch had on the horse. Felt as the tension flowed out of Fane's coiled muscles, how his pulse stopped racing, until he finally flicked his ears up and swung his head to nuzzle Bolin's shoulder. It quite nearly had the same effect on her -- without the nuzzling.
"I’ll tell you this much." Bolin pitched his voice so low she had to lean toward him and strain her ears to catch the words. "That power you keep hidden inside -- the wilding? That is a gift of your birth father, and he wants nothing more than to have it for himself. Meriol and your mother did a fine job of keeping you hidden from him all these
He didn't answer. Never mind Ciara didn’t want the future her aunt had planned for her. Never mind Ciara didn't need Bolin's help or protection.
You need no one's protection, lady .
Her eyes widened at the whisper of a voice in her head. Donovan?
Let me come to you. I will take you wherever you chose to go.
"Ciara!" Bolin’s voice bore similarities to the warning growl of a wolf. "Do not call to him," he said, enunciating each word very clearly.
She blinked. "I'm not. I-"
"Get on your horse."
He cannot hold you, lady. It is your choice .
"No." Whether to Donovan or to Bolin Ciara couldn't say. She felt suddenly light-headed. Her vision swam, and her thoughts scattered in a swirl of images: Meriol, the funeral pyre, Scar-face. Her arm still tickled as though spiders raced across her skin, and Bolin now stood far too close. She backed a step. Her breath fought her, becoming as uncontrollable as her thoughts.
Bolin reclaimed her arm and propelled her toward Fane. He swung her into the saddle before mounting Sandeen, and then they were heading back into the woods. Ciara sucked in a breath and then another. As her head cleared she felt a little less inclined than the previous evening to be nothing more than baggage. She sat deep in the saddle, shifting her weight back which caused Fane to plant his front feet and come to a sudden halt. Sandeen spun as the lead rope went taut, and Ciara couldn't decide who she'd irritated more -- the grey stallion, or the man on his back. Sandeen crowded forward, toward Fane, and the gelding side-stepped to get out of the way, ears flat, until he ran out of room. Ciara cried out, her leg trapped between horse and tree.
"I've had enough," Bolin warned.
Ciara tried pushing off the tree with her hand but Fane refused to budge. "You're hurting my leg."
"Would you prefer to be hog-tied and slung over Fane’s back?"
Ciara didn't answer fast enough, and Sandeen took another step forward.
"Bolin, stop!"
He hesitated, glowering at her over Sandeen’s head and Ciara held her breath. Without any visible cue, the grey swung around on his haunches. Fane lurched after them as the lead pulled tight, his ears still back and his gait stiff -- even less willing than Ciara to follow complacently after a horse that could easily kill him. But they went no more than a few paces before Bolin reined in. Ciara went as quiet and tense as Fane, both braced for another face-off neither wanted.
It didn't come. Nothing did. Bolin sat rigid on Sandeen’s back until Ciara began to wonder if he had lost his way. When he turned the stallion, Fane leaned back against the rope, but Bolin didn’t advance on them again. He frowned, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her.
"Do you know anything of your birth father?"
Ciara blinked. "My what?"
"Did your mother never tell you?" he persisted.
Ciara shook her head. "It didn’t matter. Not to me. Marcus was the only father I have ever known."
"It does matter." He looked away in disgust.
"Bolin-"
He looked back at her, a shadow playing across his face. "It matters a great deal."
He dismounted and came toward her, and when Ciara inadvertently flinched his frown deepened. He stood at Fane's shoulder, one hand absently stroking the gelding's chest. Ciara could feel through the saddle the effect Bolin’s touch had on the horse. Felt as the tension flowed out of Fane's coiled muscles, how his pulse stopped racing, until he finally flicked his ears up and swung his head to nuzzle Bolin's shoulder. It quite nearly had the same effect on her -- without the nuzzling.
"I’ll tell you this much." Bolin pitched his voice so low she had to lean toward him and strain her ears to catch the words. "That power you keep hidden inside -- the wilding? That is a gift of your birth father, and he wants nothing more than to have it for himself. Meriol and your mother did a fine job of keeping you hidden from him all these
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