Not slow. Not fast. Heavy. Each footstep was deliberate. Firm. The sound of his bare feet on the mud was audible— a wet, sucking sound. He walked toward the princess. His black eyes were on her. His face was calm. The same calm. The same stillness.
He stopped before her.
He looked down. At her face. At her green eyes— wide, wet, terrified. At her emerald hair— tangled, dirty, hanging in ropes. At her torn dress— the silk hanging from her shoulders, the bodice gaping, the swell of her small breasts visible. At her bare foot— bleeding, dirty. At her hands— trembling, raised, the gesture of surrender.
"Sorry," he said. His voice was quiet. Warm. The voice of a man who has just killed a bear and who is checking on the girl it was about to kill. "Are you all right?"
Her heart thumped.
