I pull the filthy tape away from his skin, remove the gauze, and immediately feel sick. The insignia of the Brute Squad is burned into the side of Logan’s neck in a welt of blistered red skin turning black at the edges.

He’s been branded. Marked for life by the man everything in me longs to destroy. Every time anyone looks at Logan, they’ll know the Commander once had him at his mercy and proved to be stronger.

I dab antiseptic across the wound, sloughing away dead skin and trying not to gag at the sight. I want to torture the Commander before he dies. Hear him scream for mercy and know I have the power to deny him. The thought fills me with a heady sense of power, and my lips peel back from my teeth in a snarl as I gently cut away the blackened skin at the edge of the wound.

Logan stirs restlessly but doesn’t wake as I spread salve over the burn and attach a fresh patch of gauze. I lie down, press myself against him, and ignore Quinn and Willow as they huddle in a corner, speaking in low voices.

I might not be able to torture the Commander. I might not be able to make him beg. Once the Cursed One is called, destruction is swift and certain. But I’ll make sure the Commander’s death is so horrific, so legendary, that for the rest of Logan’s life whenever anyone sees the mark on his neck, they won’t see a man who was once broken before his leader. They’ll see the mark of a man who helped destroy the most powerful person in our world, and they’ll tread with caution.

Holding this thought close, I close my eyes and drift to sleep as Logan breathes steadily beside me, Quinn and Willow fall silent in their corner, and the rain taps lightly against the cabin’s moss-draped roof.

In the morning, after a quick breakfast of dried fruit, I help Logan pack his gear, and stuff half the contents of his pack into mine when he isn’t looking. He doesn’t want me to notice how much pain he’s in, but I see it.

He reaches up, fingers the new patch of gauze on his neck, and looks at me. “This is fresh.”

“I changed it last night while you slept.”

“Is it … did it look bad?”

“A little.”

“It’s probably permanent.”

“It adds character.” My smile feels wobbly at the edges, so I firm my lips before he notices.

“At least it takes the attention off my face.” His smile doesn’t wobble at all.

“What’s wrong with your face?” I peer at it closely, looking for injuries I may have missed last night in the uncertain light of dusk.

“Nothing.” He laughs a little. “It was a joke. You know, people won’t have to look at my ugly face because they’ll be too busy admiring the Commander’s handiwork on my neck.”

I scowl. “Your face is just as handsome as ever. And if we do this right, no one will look at your neck without shivering a little at the thought of the leader who went down in flames.”

“You think I’m handsome?” A hesitant smile tugs at his lips.

“What? I don’t know.” I’m suddenly very interested in the state of his boots. Peering at them closely, I pray he’ll change the subject. He doesn’t.

“That’s what you said.”

Heat blazes across my face, and I turn away. “I also said we’re going to take down the Commander. That’s probably the more important part of that whole conversation.”

“Not necessarily. Rachel, can we talk about what happened during the Cursed One’s attack?”

I love you, Rachel.

The heat in my cheeks creeps down my neck, and when Willow and Quinn slide their leather packs against their backs and walk toward us, I’m grateful for the reprieve. A weak stream of sunlight slips in through the filthy window near the front door and sparkles against the silver ear cuff Willow wears. Her bow is already clutched in her left hand.

“Ready? Or do you two still need a minute?” She looks at my flushed face with something like amusement.

I bend over, pick up our packs, and hand Logan his. His fingers brush mine, and he says quietly, “We’re going to have to talk about it sooner or later.”

I know we are. But I want a few more moments to hold those four precious words close before he sees the kind of girl I’ve become. Without looking at him, I settle my pack against my back and lead the way out the front door.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

RACHEL

We walk silently through the moss-draped oaks, Willow and Quinn preferring to travel through the trees above us. I can see Logan trying not to limp as each step jars his ribcage.

“Can you carry this for me?” I shove Melkin’s walking stick toward him. If he leans on the end that doesn’t slide into the ground, he can use it as a cane.

“Why?”

“Because I want to bring this back for Melkin’s wife.”

“You’re doing an admirable job of carrying it yourself.”

Stubborn, prideful man.

“But it was Melkin’s. And I no longer want to touch it.” I realize the words are true the moment they leave my mouth. I don’t want his walking stick. I don’t want to remember the bitter misery in his eyes as he asked me whether the Commander would spare his wife if he did as he was asked.

And I don’t want to remember the way he kept his knife pointed at the ground while I attacked him.

Logan takes the stick and points the dangerous end toward the sky. “Are we going to talk about Melkin?”

“No.”

“Let me rephrase that. What I meant to say is: We’re going to talk about Melkin.”