“Where did you get those weapons?” I ask, and pressure builds in my chest as the answer comes to me even before the pair of Rowansmark trackers step out of the trees behind us.

That’s going to making catching Ian off guard and killing him a bit more difficult.

“The same place I got all that white phosphorous. And the poison. And the smoke bombs. You didn’t really think I’d come all this way to recover stolen Rowansmark property and neglect to bring a pair of law enforcers and a wagonload of supplies with me, did you?”

We’re at a disadvantage. Ian’s armed. The trackers are armed. And all three are expert killers. I’m injured and tied up with rope, my weapons gone. And Quinn, who doesn’t want to be a weapon any longer, is barely able to stay on his feet.

“It’s okay,” I say to Quinn, because he can’t save me, and I don’t want him to try. I want him to live. Go back to Logan and Willow and live.

The trackers draw their swords. Ian flips both knives around in his palms. And Quinn takes a step toward them.

“Quinn.”

“She knows you can’t save her,” Ian says softly. “You can’t even save yourself.”

“I don’t want to save myself.”

My throat closes, and I whisper, “Quinn, please. Go back.”

“Oh yes, Quinn. Go back. Obey the girl. That’s all you do anyway, right? Obey others?” Ian’s smile is dipped in venom as he moves forward, a tracker on either side.

Quinn looks at me. “I’m going to do the right thing.”

“No.” Tears streak down my face, and I jerk against the rope that holds me.

“Sometimes the right thing costs us the biggest piece of ourselves, but it still has to be done.” He smiles at me, and there’s peace on his face.

He turns to Ian, and the feral rage comes back. “Pretty pathetic that you can’t beat me without the help of not one, but two trackers.” His voice mocks. “If I’m such a whipped dog, what does that make you?”

Ian snarls, and I start grasping at straws. If we separate the three, if Quinn only has to take on one at a time, he has a chance. The only way to separate them is to push Ian past logic and into rage.

“He’s crazy,” I say to Quinn. “Stark, raving mad.”

Ian hisses and turns as if to teach me a lesson.

“Yes,” Quinn says with soft menace. “He’s stark, raving mad. No wonder he needs their help.”

The trackers move toward Quinn, but Ian waves them off, his face purple with rage, his eyes pits of miserable hate. And then he lunges for Quinn, his knives slashing.

Quinn spins, strikes Ian in the face as he passes, and then drops into a crouch. Blood flows down his arm. Ian must have cut him as he passed.

Ian laughs, readies his knives, and comes at Quinn again. This time, Quinn is slower to move out of the way. He deflects Ian’s right arm, sending one of the knives flying onto the mossy ground near me, and then elbows him in the face.

Ian fights like he’s possessed. Slashing, hacking, and lunging with extraordinary grace. Grace Quinn could easily match if he weren’t badly injured already. Quinn punches, parries, and kicks, but he’s tiring. The head injury is slowing his reflexes. The weaker he gets, the harder Ian fights. My chest burns as I realize the truth.

Quinn isn’t going to win.

I fall to my knees and struggle to breathe as Ian slams his fist into the wound on Quinn’s head, and Quinn’s arms go slack. It’s just for a second, but a second is all Ian needs. Raising his knife into the air, he drives it into Quinn’s chest.

“No!” I scream and scream until I have no breath. Tears blur the world into soft silhouettes, and I don’t want blink them away. I don’t want to see Quinn fall to the ground beside me. I don’t want to see blood pouring over the bright green moss.

But Quinn deserves to have a witness to his courage. And I want the last face he sees to be someone who loves him. So I blink the tears away and crawl toward him as he lies on his back, his breath coming in halting, strangled gasps.

His hands grip the knife blade that’s lodged in his chest, and blood seeps slowly through his fingers and onto the forest floor. Somewhere above us, Ian laughs, but I ignore him. Ignore the trackers who are driving a wagon into the clearing. Ignore everything but Quinn lying broken and beautiful beside me.

“Oh, Quinn,” I whisper, and my tears drip from my face onto his.

He moves his lips, and I lean forward until my ear is next to his mouth.

“The knife,” he whispers. “Get it.”

For a moment I think he means he wants me to pull the knife out of his chest, but he isn’t looking at himself. He’s looking at the thick cluster of moss beside my feet. Suddenly, I know the truth, and I can’t bear it.

When he said he was going to do the right thing, he didn’t mean he was going to kill Ian and the trackers. He already knew he was too injured to beat them. He never intended to save us both. He simply wanted to find a way to give me the tools I needed to save myself.

“Rachel, please,” he says, and I can barely hear him.

Grief tears at me with vicious fingers, and I let it take me. Sobbing wildly, I curl toward the forest floor until my hair covers my arms and hands, and my fingers touch the cold metal of a blade. I gather it to me and slide it into my boot, rocking back and forth to cover the motion.

Then I collapse onto Quinn’s shoulder, pressing my palms to his chest, and beg him not to die. Not to leave me, like so many have left me. I beg and cry, and beneath my hands I feel . . . metal.