Chapter 2

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It has been two months since I have felt the fear I am feeling now – a peaceful, glorious two months. Now that Geralt is here, things changed so quickly. I am no longer safe in this bed, or this tavern, or even with orange hair. I knew when I ran away that I should never forge relationships too close, or become too comfortable in any bed. So I kept a bag with clothes and food and a little of my pay under the bed at all times.

I lay out a travel outfit, throw the bag by the door, and wash my face. I have to face Geralt one last time, and then I will be on my way to the next town, next tavern, any place that would take me.

"Water and bandages," I call softly and knock on Geralt's door, careful not to wake others. I hear him tell me to come in. The door creaks when I open it.

The room is softly lit with candles by the window and on the nightstand. Geralt is facing away from me, fussing with something at the table at the opposite side. He isn't wearing his leather tunic now, just a white shirt, nearly see-through. I shut the door behind me, ignoring the all the feelings I have about being alone in a room, at night, with a man. Two months of denying all contact has left me restless.

"Set the bowl down by my bedside. Bring the bandages here."

I obey and go to where he stands. Geralt turns and I quickly see he is not fussing with an arm wound – but instead a cloth and a potion bottle. I have never been fast enough, or strong enough. So when a potion-soaked rag is clamped over my face, all I can do is struggle. Geralt's eyes stare directly into mine as I use all my strength to hit him, kick him, scratch – but the rag does not move from my mouth. He throws me onto the bed, pinning me down with his body.

Fuck. He's known. He's come for me. The thought of my father paying this man to bring me back to the castle sickens me. Even imagining the castle makes me want to vomit, if not whatever potion Geralt is drugging me with right now.

I buck my hips wildly, starting to feel the effects of the potion. My muscles are losing strength. All of my screams are muffled. I claw at his face, trying to scratch his golden eyes from their sockets. I feel nothing but solid rage, the blackness edging my vision. As I succumb, he merely stares back at me – not a word spoken, only slight annoyance showing on his face. I must be an easy monster to hunt.

The sweet smell of dawn wakes me gradually. At first all I know is the cold and stony ground. Then I am aware of myself, my hair spilling all around me, the goosebumps on my chest as wind passes over me. My wrists are tied together at my tailbone, so tight it drives bullets of pain up my arms. The second I can move my body again I struggle to free my hands, moaning at the pain. My legs are free, so I use them to roll my body over to it's side. I hear voices.

"She will not want to go back, you must understand," the nervous voice Nim. There is a jingle of coins being exchanged. Is this a betrayal? My head aches with fog.

"So it seems." This is Geralt. His voice is hoarse with morning, as if he slept long and well. Where did I sleep?

When I remember the night before, I want to scream. I open my mouth to yell something, maybe "Fuck you" or "Help me." But my lips are stale, slow moving, as if I was drunk and high. All the comes out is a weak moan. Immediately I hear boots crunch near me and I see Geralt's face from above, his white hair hanging down. He looks like an angel now, the sun causing him to glow. An effect of the potion, I'm sure. But his angelic face doesn't stop the fury from pouring out of me.

I cannot go back. I will not go back. I will die before I go back.

I swiftly bring my knee up, not sure what or who it will hit. Satisfaction floods my face when I Geralt's face turns pained and he falls back. Was it his groin? I hope so.

"Perhaps more restraints are in order," Nim mutters, and I turn my head to see him standing there as well. To my shock, we are at the back of tavern still – where the back road veers off into the woods. Excitement fills me when I realize someone could hear me scream. Anyone could hear me scream, look out their window, and come to my rescue.

By now my mouth is well warm and able to form words. I muster as much breath as I can scream for help. Before I can even finish the word I am turned onto my stomach, a large hand over my mouth, pulling my head backwards. I wiggle and feel Geralt straddling me, his thighs pressing down over my ass. I whimper in response, kicking my heels back, hoping to cause even the smallest of injury. Geralt leans down over me, my eyes tilted back so I can see him. He is frustrated, annoyed. His jaw is set tightly. Something about that pleases me.

"You said the potion lasted for twelve hours," he looks to Nim, who looks as he has been drained of all his blood.

"She is of Olix blood, she must be resistant-"

"Get me a gag," Geralt orders, nearly a yell. He is angry now. I stop struggling, which causes him to sigh in relief, but he holds my mouth tightly still, my neck beginning to spasm with pain.

This is exactly how I envisioned my demise. It was always going to be this. Someone would notice me, sell me out, and another would cash in on my father's prize for the runaway princess. Pathetically predictable. However, the reason I have been caught off guard is because Geralt is a monster hunter – not a bounty hunter. Witchers do not operate off greed but instead protect towns, peasants, entire kingdoms from the presence of evil beasts. So why was Geralt taking his precious time to wrangle a stray princess? My father's prize must be something even greater than I imagined.

Nim quickly produces a cloth and a thin scarf, handing to them to Geralt with a disappointed look – as if I am his daughter and him my disapproving father. A coward, I think. How long has he known? I imagine he stashed ropes and a gag the day I arrived. He just had to wait for the prize money to increase as my father got more desperate.

When Geralt takes the cloth, he pauses. Then he brings his head down to mine, his mouth to my ear.

"Listen to me," his voice low and cold, "You will open your mouth, quietly, understand?"

I respond with a muffled yes.

When he moves his hand, I can't help the cry that comes out, shrill enough to crack ice.

"Shit," his curse is through gritted teeth. He deftly stuffs the cloth into my mouth, making my jaw gape. Then he wraps the scarf around to hold it in place, tying it much too tightly at the nape of my neck. I sob, the sound only coming out as squeak. It's painful. And he made it that way on purpose. No matter, I will make sure that this journey will be just as painful for him.