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reach for the staff, Brighid back away.
    “I have it.” Her knuckles whitened on the smooth wood, the familiar nicks and grooves offering a small comfort.
    “A stick?”
    Brighid cradled the staff protectively. “Lorg.”
    Wyatt reached over and plucked it from her arms, tossing it from one hand to the next as if testing the weight. He shook his head. “This isn’t a proper staff. The proportions are wrong for someone your size.”
    The chiding tone grated on her nerves. “Hand it back.”
    “It’s hardly better than a branch.” He gave her a roguish smile that she imagined many women found charming. “I’ll purchase one more suited to you.”
    Brighid snarled at his condescension. She wasn’t one of his girls to swoon over a smile from him. She snatched the Lorg out of his hands. “These are my possessions. I ask you to treat them with respect. They might appear worthless to you, but they’re all I have left.”
    He stilled at her rebuke, the humor stripped away to reveal a man who looked genuinely contrite. “My apologies.” He tipped his head in a short bow, all signs of flirtation gone. “You’re correct. That was inexcusable. I only wished to make you smile and grant you a small gift after your terrible experience.”
    He led her to the horse and lifted her into the saddle with a gentleness that made her stomach flip-flop. Wyatt touched the Lorg , then squinted. “What are these markings?” His finger swept over the carved symbols, sending a shiver down her spine, as if he’d touched her instead.
    “None of your concern.” She wrenched the staff back and kicked the horse into motion. The animal bolted, and she tightened her hold in expectation.
    Wait, she chanted silently.
    They gained seven feet.
    Wait.
    Fifteen feet.
    Brighid tensed in preparation. When the whistle split the air, the horse jerked to an abrupt stop and pranced under her weight. She wanted to cheer that she had managed to keep her seat. Instead, she slid off the horse and dove headfirst into the undergrowth, wiggling through a too-narrow gap.
    With her hands still tied, she did her best to ignore the branches that scratched her skin like claws. She had only moments before he followed. A heartbeat later, she heard the horses move past her hiding spot. Although she mourned the loss of her bag, she sacrificed it gladly in exchange for her freedom.
    The world quieted.
    No pounding footsteps, no shouts of warning.
    Her muscles tensed with awareness, knowing he remained nearby. The man was too smart for his own good. Stubborn. He wouldn’t let her go easily. She tugged at the bindings with her teeth, but the confounded ropes were too tight to undo.
    Two options presented themselves.
    Either run or stay and risk recapture.
    With a snap decision, she wiggled out of her hiding place and ran. She managed to reach a small clearing before stumbling to a halt.
    Brin stood in the center, covered in sweat, his legs spread wide with an axe balanced in his hands. A strangled sound of dismay caught in her throat.
    He turned, and the axe fell to the ground with a hollow thud. Those big hands of his clenched at his sides, his open expression turning hostile.
    Fickle lady luck seemed to have abandoned her.
    “Brin.” Brighid smiled and glanced over her shoulder, cursing herself for not taking the other fork in the path.
    “You shouldn’t have come back.” Their eyes locked as he bent to retrieve his axe.
    Fear rippled through her, and Brighid raised her arms in protest, the staff awkwardly clutched in her hands. A searing burn sizzled along the runes on her feet as her powers flared to life.
    A loud crack echoed in the glen.
    In slow motion, the tree he’d been chopping toppled to the ground with a thud that vibrated up her legs.
    The big bear of the man disappeared when the branches engulfed him.
    “Brin!” Her heart stalled in her chest. She rushed forward to help when his hand shot out through the branches. Precious few inches were all that