“Jonas!” she called out to him.
He turned to look at her, moonlight highlighting his handsome face—just as an arrow pierced through the air and sliced into his shoulder.
He grasped the arrow and tore it out, his pained gaze frantic as he sought hers again. “Run, Cleo. Run now!”
Dozens of red-uniformed guards spilled into the camp. Cleo scanned her immediate surroundings for a weapon—a knife, an ax, anything that could give her some protection and the chance to help fight back against their attackers. But there was nothing.
A guard in a red uniform was headed directly toward her, his sword drawn.
With a frantic look over her shoulder to see her new rebel friends scatter in every direction, she began to run, ducking past trees and bushes in an attempt to escape the guard. Her impractical palace shoes, a stark contrast with the rest of her simpler clothes, sank into the soft dirt with every step.
But the guard was too fast to outrun. He easily caught up to her and grabbed hold of her, turned her around, and slammed her into a tree trunk so hard that she lost her breath and her vision swam. “Tell me, little girl, where is Princess Cleiona?”
When she couldn’t find the air to speak, to respond to his harsh demands, he peered closer at her, his sword biting into the skin at her neck. For a moment she was terrified he would slice her throat wide open and leave her there to bleed to death before she could claim her identity.
But then there was a flicker of recognition in his cruel, narrowed eyes. Even with her hair wrapped tightly into a bun, her face dirty, her clothes that of a Paelsian rebel, did he still recognize her as the princess he’d been sent out to find?
An arrow whizzed so close to her face that she felt the wind from it as it caught the guard in the side of his neck. He leapt back from her, clawing at his throat as blood gushed from him with each beat of his heart. He dropped to the ground, thrashing in the moss and leaves for a moment longer and then went still. Before Cleo could think, could take a breath, Jonas was there. Her heart leapt at the sight of him.
He grabbed hold of her arm. “We need to move.”
“The camp . . .”
Whatever expression he wore was lost in the shadows, but his tone was tight. “It’s lost. We have a secondary location in case of ambushes. We’ll meet the others there tomorrow.” He grabbed her and they began running.
“Why didn’t you tell me there were search parties out looking for me, murdering everyone they come across?”
“Why would I?” His shirt was soaked with blood, but the wound in his shoulder didn’t seem to slow him down at all.
“Because I have a right to know!”
“You have a right to know,” he muttered, his tone coated with mockery. “Why? Could you have done anything to stop it?”
“I could have gone back to the palace.”
“That’s not part of my plan.”
“I don’t really care! I can’t let more innocent people die.”
Jonas stopped, his grip on her arm tight enough to be painful. He looked so frustrated that for a moment she thought he might shake her, but then his expression eased.
“Many people will die, no matter what happens next—innocent or not. King Gaius may have already stolen your kingdom, but the war continues. And it will continue for as long as he sits his royal arse on that throne. Do you understand this?”
Cleo’s jaw tensed as she looked up at him, angry now. “I’m not an idiot. I understand.”
His glare burned. “Good. Now shut up so I can get you to safety.”
Jonas’s viselike grip loosened only slightly as they hurried through the forest.
“We can hide here. I found this grotto only yesterday.”
Cleo was caught off guard when Jonas pulled her sharply to the right, through a curtain of moss and vines, and through the hollow of a massive oak tree. It led, very unexpectedly, directly into a cave six paces in diameter. It was formed from the thickness of branches and leaves arching over their heads and shielding them from both the guards and any moonlight peeking through the lush green canopy above.
Cleo opened her mouth to speak, but Jonas pressed her back against the wall of this natural barrier.
“Shh,” Jonas cautioned.
Cleo concentrated on trying not to tremble from the cold and her swelling fear.
She could see the guards from where they stood and she held her breath—even the sound of breathing might give away their location. The opening to the grotto was clearly visible through the hollow of the large tree by the torches the guards held. Red uniforms moved past the entrance and guards poked at bushes and shrubs with their swords. Their horses snorted and pawed at the ground.
They were going to be discovered any moment. Jonas’s grip tightened on her, betraying his own trepidation.
The sharp tip of a sword pushed back the vines only inches from Cleo’s face, and she stifled a scream with the back of her hand.
“This way,” one guard shouted at the others, and the sword withdrew. “Make haste, they’re getting away!”
She let out a shuddery sigh of relief as the sound of their pursuers faded into the distance.
Moments later, she jumped as a flame caught her attention. Jonas had struck a piece of flint from his pocket and lit a candle he drew out of a cloth bag hidden in the cave.
“Let me see your neck.” He brought the candle close to her, rubbing his thumb over her skin where the guard had pressed his blade. “Good. It’s only a scratch.”