“Fynn,” Sol panted, grasping the sleeve of the Captain’s ruffled tunic as tightly as he gripped her wrist. “What are we running from? I don’t think I can—”
“Bounty hunters,” he said roughly. Fynn led her between two large, colorful merchant stalls, and if not for the fluttering fabric that swayed in his hand in lieu of the books he’d just purchased, Sol would never have realized he’d yanked two hooded cloaks from a clothesline. The vendor must not have noticed, either, because no one called after him for stealing them. “Keep running.”
Sol’s heart was in the back of her throat, beating with all the rage of a dragon whose wings could still fly. She could hear her pulse, the desperate pounding of her blood as it coursed through her veins and stirred the Magic that dwelled there. If only they were closer to the quay. She could flood these streets and rid this port of the bounty hunters.
But even Fynn wasn’t touching his Magic, was not using his wind to blow the hunters away like Sol knew he could. No, he would not give himself away, would not give the people of Arrowbrook a reason to join their chase. It was dangerous to leave themselves so vulnerable, but it was a risk Fynn appeared willing to take.
Sol, however, did not know if it was a risk that she could afford.
“Fynn,” she gasped. “I can’t—I can’t keep up. I can’t keep running.”
“Yes, you can,” he snapped at her. Fynn tossed a look over his shoulder, and only then did he finally slow. He thrust a pilfered cloak into the Princess’ arms and continued to pull her along. “Put that on,” he said. He yanked on his own cloak with one hand. “Now. Pull up the hood and tuck in your hair.”
He released her long enough that Sol could slip her arms into the belled sleeves, then grasped her wrist so tightly that Sol feared her bones might shatter. Already, they ached, and her scarred skin burned as if once again on fire.
Sol pulled the fur-trimmed hood over her head, concealing her tangled, unraveling braid inside the beautiful scarlet wool. It was a garment she’d have picked for herself had she and Fynn had the time to browse for such finery, though she could not say she appreciated its warmth in this moment. Beads of sweat were beginning to roll between her shoulder blades.
The Princess of Sonamire choked on a scream as Fynn swerved, yanking her down a darkened alley where even the sun did not reach. The damp air was a welcomed brush of cold against Sol’s stifling skin, a canopy of dirty fabric swaying overhead in a breeze of the Captain’s creation.
Cursing beneath his breath, Fynn gently pressed Sol against the wall of a wet, crumbling brick building, the cracked stones cutting into her back despite her dress and cloak.
“Fynn,” she breathed. “What are we doing here?”
“Hiding,” he said. Fynn fixed her hair, tucking the loose strands of red into her hood. “Even if they come this way, they’ll leave us be. They’ll think we’re—doing things.”
It was not like him to stumble.
Sol’s heart stalled, her cheeks heating with a modest blush as she understood why he was stumbling. “Things?” she demanded, her voice reverberating off the stone. “What things?”
“Keep your voice down,” Fynn snarled quietly. He stepped closer, pressing his hands into the brick on either side of her head, trapping her between the cage of his arms. The space between them was gone, Fynn’s heaving chest pushing into Sol’s front. “If we’re lucky, they won’t even see us here. It’s dark enough.”
“And then what?” Sol asked hoarsely. “What if they do see us?”
“We’re secluded.” His breath was warm against her cheek, sucking the air from her lungs as she lifted her eyes to meet his wild ones. “If they come this way, I can use my Magic.”
A ruse, then, this alley, to either drive them away or lure them in close so that Fynn could blast them into oblivion.
Footsteps thudded over the loose gravel, crunched over the broken shards of glass littering the alley. Sol could not contain her whimper, could not stop herself from reaching for Fynn and gripping the collar of his cloak. He hushed her, pressing his forehead against her brow and gently cupping her face. “Be quiet,” he whispered. “They’ll move on.”
Her fault—this was her fault.
The hunters were looking for her, just as they’d been looking for her the morning the Refuge had been attacked. Fynn, of course, didn’t know any better, had assumed they’d been there for him. But Sol knew. Sol knew the truth that she could not bring herself to tell him, and now it would likely get them killed.
“I think I saw them go this way!”
Sol yelped, hushed only by Fynn’s calloused thumb brushing lightly across her lips. “Shh,” he murmured. “It’s all right. Just stay quiet.”
She leaned into the Captain’s palm. “I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
And he was. She could hear it in the way his voice quivered, the way his fingers shook against her cheek. His heart was thundering in his chest, hard enough that Sol felt it beating against hers, in sync with her own.
A bounty hunter rounded into the alley, a bright, sweltering ball of light flickering in his palm. A Fire-Wielder.
Fynn tensed, his thumb smoothing over Sol’s cheek as he drew a ragged breath. “Do you trust me?”
“Always,” Sol vowed, and it was the last bit of air between them before Fynn’s mouth was on hers, stealing away the rest.
His lips were soft, hesitant as he claimed her first kiss.
Sol was drowning. Drowning and flying and lost to the weight of Fynn kissing her, what it felt like, his calloused fingers tracing the lines of her jaw. His nose brushed against her own, and a soft, breathy laugh rumbled in the back of his throat.
Fake. This was nothing more than an act to him, a ploy to save their lives.
But he could do this, Sol realized, could play this part and make it look real. She had seen him with that boy the night before, had seen him wrapped up in Jorel as if he were as intoxicating as the wine. Sol did not know how to do that—how to be that.
And Fynn must have known it, too, because she could taste the desperation on his mouth. He pressed himself closer, his hand falling to her hip where he gently tapped his fingers. Do something, he seemed to say. Do anything. Play along.
Sol breathed in sharply through her nose. She placed a hand against the center of Fynn’s chest, the other inside the curve of his neck. She felt his pulse beneath her fingers, his heart beneath her palm. Fynn sighed against her lips as if she had done something right, relief loosening the tension from his shoulders.
“Ugh. Disgusting.”
A quiet snarl tore from the Captain’s throat, one that shook Sol straight to her marrow. Fynn pried his mouth from hers, a hairsbreadth of space between them as he hunched his shoulders and spat, “Get lost. We’re busy.”
It was not his voice that echoed through that darkened alleyway, cold and fierce and lacking its usual charm. Even his accent had changed, twisting into one less lilting and that Sol did not recognize from any region of Irica.
The Fire-Wielder snorted, close enough now that Sol heard the crackling of his Magic. “So I see, lad. Mind telling me where you found her?”
“Around,” Fynn said vaguely. He kept himself angled towards Sol, pinning her against the brick wall and hiding her beneath the weight of his body. The stones cut harshly into her shoulders, pricks of pain erupting along the ridge of her spine. Sol shifted uncomfortably between the damp, eroding rock and Fynn. “I paid well for her, and you’re cutting into our time. I’ve been at sea for months.”