No, not at me. At the trees beside me.

They’ve seen Quinn moving through the cypresses, just like I have, and they’re going to kill him the second he gives them a clear shot.

I press my arms against the wagon floor and pull myself to the side of the wagon until I’m free of Samuel’s weight. Scanning the trees to my left, I look for the shadow that moves water-quick through the twisted branches. For the boy who time and time again has saved my life even when he didn’t owe me a thing.

“Get down,” Samuel barks.

A whisper of sound—the barest brush of a boot sliding against a branch—floats from the tree closest to us. Samuel jerks his head up at the same moment that the mossy fringe along a branch trembles.

He shouts, “Target, my ten o’clock, seventeen yards. Destroy!”

“Quinn!” I scream. “Down!”

A slew of arrows fly from the trackers on the boat, arc swiftly, and slice into the trees.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RACHEL

“Shoot again!” Samuel shouts. His hand digs painfully into my shoulder as he orders Quinn’s death. I turn on my heels, leaning into the arm that holds on to me, and punch him in the face.

He won’t let go of the reins, because getting the wagon onto the boat is his first priority, but he should let go of me to protect his cheekbone—it’s instinctive self-defense. He doesn’t. Instead, he absorbs the blow and then gives me a look that makes something deep inside of me shiver.

Any hope that I might one day count Samuel as a reluctant ally shrivels beneath the scathing contempt on his face.

Behind me, more arrows slam into the cypress tree. I twist my head around, frantically scanning the ground for Quinn’s body. He isn’t there. I look at the tree, at the arrows buried in its branches, terrified that I’ll find him impaled by one of the weapons.

He isn’t there, either. Or if he is, he’s still hidden behind drooping moss and bright-green leaves. I scan the pale trunk and the dark forest floor for patches of blood, but I can’t see any.

A hand wraps around my hair and jerks me to the wagon floor. I land heavily on my injured arm, and swallow against the bile that rises to the back of my throat as pain screams through me. Sweat beads along my upper lip, and my breath comes in short, harsh bursts as Samuel leans over me, his dark eyes pitiless.

“Whoever is in those trees speared Heidi. I don’t allow those who attack my people without provocation to escape alive.”

The wagon picks up speed as the donkeys hurry downhill. The momentum drags me forward, crushing me against the front of the wagon. I meet Samuel’s gaze.

“He did have provocation.” My tone is as pitiless as his. “You kidnapped me. Ian, whom you’re so loyal to, killed innocent people—including children—instead of confronting the person he felt had wronged him. Any violence at this point can be traced straight back to Rowansmark.”

“No.” He slaps the reins, and the wagon barrels down the slope. “The violence can be traced back to your leader, Commander Chase.”

“He isn’t my leader.” I twist my hips and try to pull my knees toward my chest, but Samuel’s grip is relentless. “He’s cruel, and he’s a coward, and he deserves to die. I hope I’m the one who gets to kill him. But the Commander isn’t in those trees. You’re trying to kill a boy who only wants to save my life.”

My words are falling on deaf ears. Samuel glances at Heidi, who lies in stoic silence at the end of the wagon bench, her eyes closed and her hands pressed hard against the bloody wound in her thigh, and then scans the forest again. Beneath us, the wheels bite into the wooden planks of the dock, and the dirty-fish smell of the river swamps me.

The wagon rocks gently to the left, as if all of the crates within its bed suddenly shifted to one side.

Or as if someone just leaped onto the left edge of the wagon’s back step.

Quinn is on the wagon.

My heart pounds wildly as I see the realization dawn on Samuel’s face as well. The anger in his eyes blinks out, replaced instantly by detached ruthlessness.

I twist my neck, trying to see the back of the wagon, but all I see is the side of the bench.

I haven’t watched Samuel fight, but he’s a tracker. He’s going to have the same efficient, powerful technique that Rowansmark trackers are known for.

Quinn is efficient and powerful, too. Maybe they’re evenly matched in strength and prowess. Maybe not. But Quinn won’t take another’s life. He’ll fight to incapacitate or disarm.

Samuel will be fighting to kill.

And the dozen trackers standing guard atop the boat’s upper deck will be ready to assist him.

Samuel lets go of my shoulder, grabs my hands, and loops the reins around my wrists so tightly, I can barely feel my fingers. The agony spiking up my right arm is nearly unbearable. I jerk against the strips of leather, trying to loosen them enough to get free, but he’s left me no leverage.

“Get us onto the boat,” he says.

I clamp my jaw against another wave of pain, and tug harder at the reins. I have to free my hands while there’s still time to help Quinn. The donkeys squeal in protest, and the wagon wheels slow.

Samuel pulls a dagger from his boot. “Go ahead and stop the wagon, Rachel. You’ll simply make it easier for my men to aim their arrows.”

Without another word, he grabs the bench, vaults over it, and heads toward the back of the wagon.

Toward Quinn.

Bending my face toward my hands, I yank at the reins with my teeth. The leather tastes like salt and dirt. My teeth ache as I arch my back and pull as hard as I can.