I ran along a narrow running trail. My feet crunched through dead leaves and twigs and splashed through puddles that flicked mud up the backs of my calves. I smashed through spiderwebs, glistening with dew, that spun between trees, my heart pumping a steady beat, and my breath swirling away in thin streams with the crisp snap of dawn.

I refused to acknowledge why I couldn't venture any deeper into the Hemmlok Forest. Why I purposely chose to skirt near the tree line where the trees were young and not veiled with draping ivy and shadowed with mist.

Last night, after being bossed around by Miss Uptight, I'd returned to the room where I'd helped her stuff the flowers into the vases that were so fucking important to her, and joined Mrs. Deniaud and Marissa, and their guests.

Valarie was there with Byron. They were sitting in separate armchairs, facing one another, discussing artwork. The guests left them alone, except for me. I was her brother, of course, I was going to insert my presence into their little two-person world. I'd perched on the armrest of Valarie's chair, sinking into silence as they carried on their conversation. Byron had been attentive to my sister, doing most of the talking. Valarie spoke up a few times, still stuttering as she replied softly. But Byron didn't do what everyone else did. He sat back and let her finish her stuttering speech, not interrupting her halfway through, or ending her sentences for her.

My regard for Byron was slowly growing. Slowly.

Rosa Battagli was having a fine time with the Lyon brothers—Forrestor and Harding—broadly beaming and on occasion blushing with the attention they bestowed upon her. And Laurena, the spiteful, spoilt princess, had kept her distance, but I'd caught the sly, cold looks she shot my sister. Not that Valarie noticed; she was too busy comparing artists with Byron. Whatever problem Laurena had with my sister, it seemed to be more about the fact her brother had taken a shine to Valarie. More than a shine, considering how intently he watched the nuances playing across her features.

I'd spent a few hours in their company, numb to everything around me, until sleep tugged at my tired body and bed called. Valarie had left with me, and we'd both retired to our adjoining rooms.

No matter how late it was when I crashed for the night, it was ingrained in me to rise before dawn. And like any other morning, my body alarm clock woke me up. If I were at home, I would have donned my armor and joined our family's Warband, warming up with a 5-mile run first, before running drills—warfare in the training pits with swords and crossbows and fists.

There'd been no point trying to go back to sleep, so I'd headed out into the pre-dawn darkness for an early run. I'd strapped a dagger to my outer thigh, the leather sheath hugging my long shorts tightly. I could have left the dagger behind, but it was a habit to have at least one blade on me at all times.

Marissa had a few events planned for her guests today, all of which I was going to avoid. Stupid things like tennis, yawn, and shooting matches, again yawn. Valarie had brought her art supplies with her, and we'd already planned to avoid everyone by slinking back into the forest where she'd spend her day painting or sketching, and I really didn't give a fuck what I ended up doing as long as I wouldn't encounter Irma Szarvas. To my relief, Irma hadn't made an appearance last night. I knew my luck would run out sometime over the weekend. She'd been hounding me incessantly of late, wanting to see me to talk. I was pretty sure she'd arrive under the guise of accompanying her family's servants for the dance, and I really didn't know what I was going to do or say when we finally came face to face after so long. In the meantime, until my luck ran out, I was sure as hells was going to keep a low profile.

I came back to the here and now, pounding down the forest's running trail, breathing in cold air laced with pine and damp earth.

Through the latticework of leaves overhead, I spied the first fingers of morning sunlight beginning to stretch across the sky. I burst from the wilderness where there were no trails, and back onto a dirt path that skirted the inside of the forest's tree line. Slowing my pace down, until my heart eased its pounding, I dropped back to a walk. Bracing my hands on my hips, I cooled down, sucking the chilly air into my lungs.

The Hemmlok Forest that surrounded the Deniaud estate was wild and gnarled, spanning thousands of acres. It was so big it was shared by other estates, one of them being the Szarvases. Their grand mansion, their kastély, was nearest to the heart of the forest, a place so ancient and thick with trees it was barely passable. This forest was home to some of the most deadly creatures that inhabited our world. Lesser creatures prowled the forest, and a few Horned Gods too.

A noise, a rhythmic sound, of footfalls crushing leaves, alerted me to someone nearby.

I slowed down and wiped the sweat from my face with the edge of my t-shirt. Stepping off the path and back into the wilds, I began to hunt whoever or whatever it was. I sent my senses swirling out, coursing through the undergrowth, shooting forward as I silently tracked it.

A scent wafted out...

A fresh linen scent, roses too, and something else...

Pushing aside a low-hanging branch, I ducked low to spy through a gap in the trees and watched a girl trudging amongst the ferns and long grasses come into view.

It was that servant girl from last night. Miss Uptight.

For one crazy moment, I thought about running in the opposite direction. This girl was a bed of fucking nails. She was water flicked on a hot pan of oil. Gods, last night was ridiculous; her tongue was forked and as sharp as one of my blades.

Still, I was curious. What was she doing out here?

She was dressed warmly in a gray hoodie and sweatpants, stepping over a bushy tussock in running shoes. She must have sensed me, which was curious since I was good at hunting and even better at concealing myself from others.

She tensed and froze mid-step, furtively glancing around at her surroundings. Her wary green eyes flashed wide, and her fingers bunched around the straps of her backpack. "I know you're there," she called out.

I stepped out, showing myself, and she whirled in my direction, her breath easing when she saw that it was me. And then, I guess because she saw that it was me, she made a disgusted sound like ugh, and rolled her eyes.

"Miss Uptight," I greeted her.

Without missing a beat she replied, "Mr. Whiskers."

"What are you doing out here?" It was early, and even the servants hadn't risen when I'd headed out for a run.

She cast a swift glance over me, chewing her bottom lip. "Same as you, coming back from a run." She pushed into motion, heading back toward the mansion, weaving her way through the undergrowth of ferns. I kept pace with her and I could see her bristling at my company.

Tough, Miss Uptight. You're stuck with me!

Her sharp, intense eyes took in the blade strapped to my thigh. "Hunter, right?"

She still thought I was a servant.

In that split second, I had a moment to choose: to tell the truth or to play along. And because I could be a bit of a dick, I chose to play along. I had no idea where any of this was going to go, but what the hells, it amused me to think I could at least get one back at her for all the barking she did at me last night. Also, she'd hurt my foot, dropping that godsdamn bucket on it.

"Ah-huh," I replied casually.

"Thought so." She shot me another glance. "Which House do you serve?"

I tried to run through who I knew was here for the weekend, and which one of those were Hunters. "The Lyons," I replied.

"Oh." And there seemed to be a note of approval in her tone.

I made another mental note to threaten the Lyon brothers with one more favor I needed from them. If Miss Uptight ever asked, I was one of their Hunters.

She stopped a few yards away from the tree line. Thick tussocks swayed with a gentle breeze and brushed against her shins. She hooked her thumbs through the backpack's shoulder straps and shifted her weight to her left leg, tapping her right foot in an annoyed patter on the leaf-littered forest floor. Obviously, she was annoyed with me. But for the moment, I had no idea why.

Her eyebrows rose, expectantly, at me.

I narrowed my gaze, wondering what was going on in her head. My eyebrows slowly rose to match hers. We were pretty much having an eyebrow-off.

She cleared her throat, and pointedly jerked her chin toward the lawn and the Deniaud mansion that peeked between the tree leaves.

I still had no clue.

She made that ugh sound again. "I'll go first," she said curtly. "And you, if you could wait a little bit longer until I'm inside the mansion, please. And maybe you could also leave the forest at another point, just to be safe."

I gave her a look that said: I had no idea why she should be asking me to do that.

She gave me a look like surely I wasn't stupid enough not to know.

Except, of course, it would seem I was that stupid. I had no idea why she was looking at me like that.

She huffed an annoyed breath, shifting her weight onto one hip. "We," she said, waving her hand between us, "cannot be seen leaving the forest together."

I frowned because that seemed a little odd. I didn't know what her point was; we were just heading back after a run. I guess my confusion must have shown on my face because she went on to say, "I'm a...?" while pointing to herself.

"Girl," I answered, slowly, my voice going up like it was a question. And when she gave a small smile, nodding, for some godsdamned idiotic reason a little thrill of pride puffed my chest, like I was a puppy excited that I got a new trick right for my owner.

"And you're a...?"

"Hot guy."

She rolled her eyes. "If it strokes your ego, yeah, sure." Except she made it sound like the complete opposite. That I wasn't exactly hot.

I mean I knew, as I took a quick glance over myself and my sweaty, muddy appearance—I wasn't exactly presented at my best.

Then she did this thing with her hands, waving them about in little circles, palms outward, squinting her eyes like she was considering me as an artist would. "You kind of have this Fabio thing going on. All big and brawny."

For fuck's sake, even I knew who Fabio was—that meathead-muscled-pretty-boy with the long sweeping blond hair, all over the covers of romance novels in various outfits. Highlanders with kilts, or open frilly shirts because he was a buccaneer—always bare-chested with kissy faces and swooning girls.

"Except you're the antithesis of Fabio," she continued smoothly, all with a challenging glint in her green eyes as she leaned her upper body forward a little. "All dark and moody."

I noticed she'd chosen the word moody, not brooding. I had no idea where any of this was going but I was pretty sure I wasn't going to like it.

"Fabio's nice and seriously hot...and you're not. You look like Fabio down on his luck. Fabio who lost his job, got kicked out of home, and had to live under a bridge for several years surviving on fungus growing on the muddy brick exterior."

Oh my gods, this girl hated me! HATED ME!

I made a mental note to do something about my appearance. Maybe it was time to shave off the beard.

I smoothed my palm down my chest and abs and gave her a cocky smirk because there was one thing she should know. "Fabio always gets the girl, even Anti-Fabio."

I saw it—the corner of her mouth twitched on the cusp of a smile. She didn't want to, but she found me funny. She shook her head like she couldn't win with me—true—and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder as she strode off, gaining a little more ground on the tree line. "Sure, if it makes you feel better," she shot back over her shoulder. "Anyway, to the problem at hand. You know the rules."

"Rules?"

She stopped again, beside an old knotted oak, its bushy leaves cast dappled light and shadows across her body. She turned to face me, clearly exasperated. "You know, the rules, no...you know...none of that."

"None of what?"

Interestingly her cheeks pinked a little bit, and her brows slanted over her eyes as she suddenly looked away to stare intently at something in the undergrowth. I waited for her to explain further and when she didn't, I followed her line of sight. I couldn't see what fascinated her, there was nothing but prickly shrubs and ferns. And when my gaze went back to her, I saw a deeper pink creep up her neck and over her jaw as she nervously fidgeted, slightly changing the angle of her face to hide from me. Perhaps too embarrassed or shy to continue further.

Miss Uptight was blushing.

Interesting.

"No what?" I pushed.

She couldn't even look at me when she said, her fingers now curling even tighter around the shoulder straps, "You know, that...." she said quietly.

Miss Uptight couldn't even say it.

"Sex?"

Her gaze whipped to mine, and her eyes went round as she rapidly blinked, shocked that I would be so blunt.

"You think, that they would think, that we,"—and this time it was me waving a finger between us— "would be fucking out here in the woods?"

She stamped a foot, her mouth thinning with indignation. "Oh my..." A pause. "You needn't be so vulgar!"

I crossed my arms over my chest and said nothing.

She huffed in annoyance, flinging up a hand. "Listen, all it would take is for someone to see us together, get the wrong idea, and then my life gets incredibly uncomfortable."

"Like?"

"They might force us to marry one another."

I almost barked a laugh. As if anyone could make me do that. And a servant as well. My father would disown me before that ever happened—none of the Houses would ever allow any of their children to marry a servant. Force me to marry? Laughable. Except...this horrible, sinking feeling fell through me and knotted in my guts, because I was going to be forced to marry someone—Irma.

She popped a hand on a hip, giving me a challenging look. "How about that, Mr. Whiskers? How do you fancy being married to me?"

I'd rather marry Miss Uptight than Irma. Even I knew that.

She took a step toward me, tilting her head up, her own cocky little smirk plastered over her full lips. "Want to leave the forest together then?"

Hells no!

I swept my hand aside. "I'll let you go first." And then pointed in another direction. "I'll take the eastern side a little later."

"That's what I thought." Without even a farewell she ducked under a low-hanging branch, pushed through a few straggly shrubs, and left me behind.

I did exactly as Miss Uptight had suggested. I found the trail again and headed east, giving her enough time to cross the vast lawn back to the mansion before I even considered leaving the forest.

Half an hour later, I entered my bedroom, appropriately nicknamed Chateaux Crappo with all the junk decorating the room, and went straight for the ensuite. I tossed my muddy running shoes onto the pristine tiled floor. Shucking off my socks, shirt, and shorts, I dumped them all into a messy pile. I was filthy. Sludge had flicked up the backs of my legs, and my shoes were soaked from running through puddles dirty with mud.

Flicking on the shower, I leaned my hands on the vanity while I waited for the water to heat up. Steam began to billow in the room, clouding my reflection in the large mirror.

Sweat had cooled my body, and my hair was sweat-damp too.

Dirty...

Sweaty...

And it suddenly clicked, what had felt off about Miss Uptight.

Same as you, coming back from a run—she'd said.

I pushed off the vanity, straightening my posture as pieces of a puzzle I hadn't known I was looking at came in a sudden rush, tumbling around in my mind.

Miss Uptight's pretty golden hair had been pulled into a ponytail. No frizzy, sweat-beaded flyaways at her hairline, or a bushy tangle of locks being bounced and swung around with a runner's gait. Her sweatpants had been clean, and her shoes too. She didn't have mud-stained clothes like mine. Sure, her shoes had been a little dirty, but nothing like they would have been if she'd actually been running. There'd only been just the odd spiderweb clinging to her arms.

She hadn't been sweating.

Or gotten herself muddy from running.

There wasn't even the ruddy-cheeked tell-tale sign of her exertion.

With her little backpack that...

And I cursed low—fuck, I was a fool. It hadn't even been a backpack, nothing like runners took with them, small and light, to carry water bottles. She'd been carrying a heavy canvas rucksack, worn and stained, on her back.

And her scent had been sweet and light—an enticing rose—but there had been something else, something I'd faintly detected twining through it.

Blood.

I'd smelled blood on her.

What was she doing in the forest before sunrise? What had she maimed or killed?

I gritted my teeth, my eyes slitting. I should re-nickname Miss Uptight to Little Miss Liar.

And unfortunately for Little Miss Liar, she'd just earned herself my interest.