(R-18 Mature Scenes)
The night stretched on, unbroken.
Isolde rode in silence, the rhythm of the horse beneath her a steady thrum that should have soothed her. It did not. Each step sent a shiver through her limbs, the cold seeping in despite the cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She told herself it was only the chill. She told herself it would pass.
It didn't.
Her fingers tightened on the reins until her knuckles ached, then loosened again when the strength bled out of them. Breath came shallow. Too fast. She focused on the dark line of trees ahead, on the sound of hooves, on the faint rustle of the men riding with them.
I am moving, she reminded herself. I am leaving.
The thought helped—just enough.
Marcus rode beside her, quiet as a shadow. He had not spoken since they'd cleared the ridge. He didn't need to. His presence was constant, an anchor she could feel without looking.
She swayed.
