Isabel retreated to her tent the moment it was ready and did not emerge until Hodge had retired for the evening. Blackmane had just finished eating when he noticed her standing outside, hugging herself against the cold. He rose and walked over to her.

‘Need something?’

She looked around with a worried expression. ‘Will someone be keeping an eye on the fires overnight?’

He noted the colour rising in her cheeks after asking the question. ‘There will be plenty of men keeping watch over everything. Go get some sleep.’

She met his gaze. ‘And what about you? Will you be getting some sleep? Surely even defenders must surrender to their mortal needs occasionally.’

He nodded.

Still she did not return inside. ‘Thank you for earlier. You saved her life.’

He looked away. ‘Birds of prey keep the pests under control. They’re important.’

‘Of course. So, you saved her to keep the pests at bay?’

‘Yes.’ He had to lie, because admitting he did it for her would raise other questions.

‘What is your name?’ she asked, crossing her arms.

‘You know my name.’

She tilted her head. ‘I mean your given name.’

No one used his given name. It had all but died with his family. He hesitated before saying, ‘Ryder.’

‘Ryder,’ she repeated, testing it out. ‘My family and friends call me Belle. You can call me that if you like.’

‘Because we’re friends now?’

‘You saved Margery’s life. That may even qualify you as family.’

She gave him a tired smile, one he drank up.

‘Goodnight, Lady Isabel,’ he said, making it clear that he was neither friend nor family.

Her smile faded, and he was the reason.

‘Goodnight, defender,’ she said quietly before disappearing inside the tent.

Blackmane headed down to the creek for a wash, splashing handfuls of cold water over his face. She was getting to him, and that was dangerous for everyone.

When he returned from the creek, he saw that one of her tent flaps was snagged on something, which meant she was visible to anyone passing by. Releasing a heavy breath, he walked up the gentle slope to the tent, trying very hard not to peer inside—and failing. He was a few feet away when he glimpsed her seated on a roll-out bed in her nightdress. She had a blanket draped around her shoulders and long hair spilling down one shoulder. She was staring at the candle at the far end of the tent, a hairbrush idle in her hand. He should have quickly pulled the tent closed and walked away, but he did not do that.

The hem of her nightdress sat mid-calf. Her slender ankles were crossed, the soles of her feet visible. Both had angry red scars from toe to heel. His chest tightened as he wondered what form of hell this girl had walked through to end up betrothed to the devil himself.

As though sensing him there, her gaze snapped to the gap in the tent, and a soft gasp escaped her. She tugged her nightdress down over her legs and feet. He should have walked away. But then her face and shoulders relaxed, and she released the hem of her nightdress. It slid back up her legs, her scars on display once again. It felt like an invitation, a baring of her soul. Neither of them moved or spoke. Then his eyes fell to her feet again, her toes curling as his gaze landed. It was an honest moment, and he was utterly captivated by it.