Now that I’m staring into the eight black orbs that make this tarantula’s eyes, I’ve decided otherwise.

I scramble backward on my elbows, leaving a path of smeared blood across the cave floor.

I quickly discover this plan of action is not going to work.

The spider closes the gap between us with the ease of a single step, its long spindly legs covering the distance.

I’m not entirely sure, because my blood loss is causing my senses to fade, but I’m fairly certain I gag.

It’s probably more like a retch if I’m to be perfectly honest.

Dread encompasses me, and though I try to push myself up, my hands slip on the blood-slick floor.

I hate Farin. The male doesn’t even have the decency to kill me properly, and now I’m going to be eaten before I can bleed out from my knife wound in peace.

The spider clicks its pincers together greedily, then attacks.

I brace myself for a slow and agonizing death, hoping whatever goo is dripping from those pincers is an analgesic as well as a paralytic.

What barrels into my body doesn’t feel like pincers, though, and it comes from the side, sending me sliding across the floor.

There’s a crunch, and when I turn my head, I find that underneath the spider’s massive body is Farin, whose dagger—the one he swiped from my belt and used to stab me—is twisting upward into the spider’s thorax.

The spider writhes, its legs scrambling with panic as it tries to retreat, but Farin just rips the dagger from the spider’s belly before stabbing it again. And again.

An image flashes over my imagination of a child torturing a spider for fun.

Black ichor sprays Farin’s face as he butchers the spider’s underside with his knife—no, my knife—a feral smile on his face.

I take it back.

I think I’d rather the spider eat me.

Since Farin and the spider are now occupied with each other, I take the opportunity to crawl away, but I don’t even make it back to the tunnels before my body decides it needs to conserve blood, and that my limbs aren’t what need it most at the moment.

I collapse on my side against the cave floor in time to hear the spider screech. I turn my head to watch as it crumples over, its legs shriveling up at its flayed abdomen.

Farin stands, wiping the ichor off his face.

He looks to be contemplating whether he’ll hack the legs off the corpse for good measure.

Slowly, though, the high of the fight fades from his expression, and he turns toward the wall where Nox disappeared through the eyelet a few moments ago. He traces the empty wall with his careful fingers, like he thinks he’ll find a secret latch that will open a hidden door.

“Looks like you’re stuck here with me,” I say. I’m rather certain teasing the psychopath is only going to get me killed faster, but obviously my body has redirected my blood from my brain at this point.

Farin turns, his face white with panic. He’s still touching the bare wall with his fingers, though his back is now turned to it.

“No,” he says again, but this time it’s more of a whisper.

I might be tempted to feel bad for him, except he’s the one who just stabbed me.

He brings his hand to his forehead, rubbing the spot underneath his hairline and pacing as he thinks.

Then his ears flick, and he snaps his gaze toward the wound that occurred at his own hands.

A moment later he’s by my side, using his outer tunic as a bandage. The wound aches as he applies pressure to it, binding it with the fabric of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What does it look like, Wanderer? I’m saving you.”

My side hurts a little less now, though I’m almost certain that’s not a good thing. “Why?”

Farin’s eyes flit to me underneath his eyelashes, but he doesn’t answer. At least not directly.

“You’re still bleeding,” he says. Rather obvious, if I say so myself, considering the rag is soaked through.

“That is what tends to happen when you stab someone.”

“You’re fae. Your body should be healing faster than this.”

I frown, furrowing my brow more dramatically than the occasion finally warrants, but if this is going to be my only time to die, I think I’m warranted some dramatics.

“Ah,” I say, finally understanding. My thoughts are coming to me in sloshes. “You’re used to the fae healing quickly. That doesn’t work here. Only in some worlds.”

Farin’s face goes blank, but he says nothing as his outer tunic comes off and he uses it to bandage my wound.

Then Farin lifts me into his arms and carries me away.

I fall asleep with my face tucked into his chest.

I wake to the scent of searing flesh. A cry escapes my lips as something burns at my waist.

“I’m sorry. I know this hurts, but it’s necessary. Here,” Farin says, handing me a rag that he places rather roughly in my mouth. I bite down on it, peeking through my eyelashes, still flirting with passing out.

He’s holding what looks to be a brand, glowing hot as a lone ember.

Then he presses it to my bare waist.

Pain overwhelms me, but this time I force my cry into the rag inside my mouth, bearing down on my teeth like somehow I can focus on the pain there rather than the searing of my flesh.

It helps. Not by much, but I’m taking what I can get at this point.

Farin stares down at the burn site, sighing as he runs his hands through his hair. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks distressed.

Probably just me being delusional.

Agony tends to do that to a person.