by Frost Kay
The trees opened up and formed a half circle, which butted up against the biggest stone wall she’d ever seen. In the center, a strip of the black porous rock ran from ceiling to floor. She peeked between two warriors to get a better look and caught a glimpse of stairs which led to what she suspected was the dais.
“Nephew, it’s been some time since I’ve seen you in the flesh.”
The deep voice rolled over Sage like thunder in a storm, all power. She’d always thought Tehl’s voice held power, but his was nothing compared to this.
She stilled when it was Rhys who answered the warlord. “My lord, I’m humbled to be in your presence.”
Her insides quivered in fear. This was going to be worse than she thought. The warlord was Rhys’ uncle? “Oh, God,” she breathed.
“He can’t help you here,” the leader whispered.
She whipped her head around to stare into the solemn eyes of the leader.
“Blair…” the deep voice commanded.
If Sage hadn’t been staring so hard, she would have missed it. Just for a moment, hate flashed through Blair’s eyes at the sound of the warlord’s voice, but it was gone as quick as it came. He broke their stare-off, then pushed through the ring of warriors.
“My lord,” he responded, his tone respectful.
“You’ve done your job well. Thank you for bringing my nephew home safely.”
“It was nothing.”
“Untrue.” A pause. “Did you accomplish your task, nephew?”
“I did,” Rhys replied.
“Excellent. And what of your guests? I wasn’t expecting you to bring anyone home.”
Jasmine sucked in a breath and began to tremble.
Rhys’ voice drifted closer. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
“Intriguing.”
Sage’s heart raced when her enemy pushed through the circle of warriors. He captured her gaze and held his hand out. She stared at it as if it were a venomous snake.
“Come now, Sage, don’t be foolish. And mind your manners,” Rhys spoke through gritted teeth.
Inwardly, she steeled herself. She didn’t have any other choice. Things would go very badly for them if she offended the warlord. Sage turned to the woman, who was currently watching the spectacle, and gestured to Jasmine. “She can’t stand on her own. Will you help me?”
Maeve eyed her with annoyance but moved to Jasmine’s other side.
Sage squeezed her friend’s hand once more, and then placed that same hand in Rhys’, her jaw clenching when his thumb rubbed against her wrist. The warriors parted, and she dropped her eyes to her dirty feet as her own personal demon led her like a fine lady toward the dais. Her gaze snagged on his limping gait. Despite the horrible circumstances, she had to hide a grin at his shuffling pace. The bastard deserved that and then some.
Blair’s instructions ran through her head. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact. But she wouldn’t be led to the warlord like a lamb, cowering and staring at her feet like she was in submission to them. Using her last vestiges of strength, she raised her head and stared ahead.
Gasps surrounded her, and Rhys’ hand tightened on hers, but all she saw were warm, black eyes. It shocked her. She’d expected soulless, cruel eyes. The smile lines around the man’s eyes spoke of something different. His inky hair hung around his angular face, just brushing his bare, muscular shoulders. He was beautiful. Everything about him called to her, from the straight, proud line of his nose to the stubborn chin and almond-shaped eyes. But it was more than his features; it was how he wore them. Sage kept her face schooled and lifted her chin. Never in her wildest imagination did she expect him to be so stunning, or so young. Her eyes told her he was beautiful when her mind told her he featured in the nightmares of many. It wasn’t right that evil could don such an alluring mask.
Her gaze strayed to the lounging felines on either side of him, and she barely contained a gasp. Leren: the man-eaters. Their golden eyes latched onto her as they flicked their tails in her direction. With her head still held high she surveyed the Scythian court; they were every bit as beautiful and cold as she expected. They eyed her with shock and disgust, but also a flicker of fear. Why did they fear her?
“What have you brought me?”
Her eyes snapped back to the warlord, who had sat up from his lazy sprawl, now leaning forward, one elbow resting on his knee.
Hell, he was flawless.
She’d spent time surrounded by handsome men—Tehl, Sam, Gavriel, and Rafe—but this man was regal in a way that left her in awe, rather like a fine painting or well-carved statue.
Rhys tugged her close, pulling her from her gawking, but when he tried to brush a tangled strand out of her face, something inside her snapped. She slapped his hand away and jerked out of his grasp. In an instant, both man-eaters sprang from the dais and to the floor, growling in a way that had fear clawing at her belly. Her instincts told her to run, but she knew that would only sign her death warrant. She reached for her belt and clasped air. Again, she cursed Rhys for taking her weapons. She was now completely defenseless. Slowly, so as to not startle the beasts, she settled into a defensive position, hands held out in front of her.
“Who’s this?” the deep voice purred.
She shivered, but didn’t pull her gaze from the giant midnight felines.
“This is Sage Blackwell, the rebellion’s blade, and…princess of Aermia.”
“Princess?”
“Yes,” Rhys replied, pride in his tone.
There was a beat of silence, and then, “Sage, I’m so happy you’re able to visit my court.”
Visit? What a joke. “It wasn’t much of an invitation, my lord.” It took all her energy to hold still and remain calm. In reality, she couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of her pulse and the ringing inside her head.
More curses and murmurs erupted around them. Inwardly, she winced. Probably not the best idea to disrespect the warlord. She felt his gaze hot on her face, but she still didn’t look away from the beast that had just licked its lips.
“She’s feisty.”
“More than you know, my lord.”
“Why are you limping?”
She swore she could almost hear Rhys’ teeth grinding.
“She fought me and landed a blow,” Rhys rushed out.
“Interesting,” the warlord drawled. “And her injuries?”
“Earned.”
She bit her lip to keep herself from lashing out, but still kept her eyes on the beasts stalking back and forth in front of the immense throne.
“My loves, come back,” the warlord cooed.
She studied the felines as their ears flicked back and forth before slinking back to his side, settling like shadowy pools that stained the white dais. Her hands trembled, and she had to clench them to hide it. At least she would not be torn apart by beasts. For now.
The warlord stood from his throne made of stone and thorns. She blinked at his bare, chiseled chest, which also seemed to be carved from stone, and again wondered why he didn’t wear clothes. In her mind, a warrior would want as much protection as possible. Sage studied him as he glided down from the dais and toward her. He truly did glide, each movement of his body flowing into the next. She shivered. Only highly trained warriors and assassins moved like that.
Tipping back her head, she maintained eye contact as he approached, halting less than an arm’s length away. Stars above, the man was enormous. He had to be well over six feet tall, maybe close to seven.
He completely threw her off balance when he bowed slightly, murmuring, “My lady.”
She dipped her chin in acknowledgement. The Scythian warlord straightened, and raised a black brow like he was waiting for something. If he expected her to curtsey, he would be sorely disappointed. She’d crash to the ground if she attempted such a thing.
Rhys stormed to her side and jerked her arm, crushing her skin in his hand. She winced as pain shot through her arm. Bla
ck eyes caught hers, and she masked her expression. But he’d seen it.
“Kneel,” Rhys demanded.
She locked her knees, not losing eye contact with the warlord. “No.”
Before she knew what happening, her knees cracked against the stone, her palms slapping the unforgiving floor, stinging. Much to her frustration, a tear squeezed out of one eye. It dripped off her face and splashed onto the white floor, mixing with the blood and dirt she’d tracked in. Glaring at the black boots of the warlord, she prepared herself for the beating that was sure to come.
The Warlord
He thought it would to be another day of dealing with petty bickering, but then his nephew reappeared, and with him, a girl.
The voices inside him quieted the longer he stared at her. The moment she lifted her head and met his gaze, he jolted. Images of the past assaulted him: sad, green eyes, a kiss, brown hair wrapped around his fist, and blood. He blew out a deep breath as the memories faded.
The voices whispered that they wanted her. That she was different. That she was his.
The resemblance was striking, and yet, she was unlike the women he’d surrounded himself with. By all accounts, he should’ve been disgusted by her, offended and repulsed by her green eyes and scars, but he was intrigued. Ensnared. The flawless Scythian women scattered around the room and the dangerous, broken creature before him created an almost laughable contrast.
But as enchanting as her body might be, it was her face that captivated him. It looked sweet, innocent, and honorable. Everything he was not.
She wore a mask of calm, but again her gaze betrayed her. Flames burned behind her eyes; she was dangerous. But what piqued his interest was the small glimmer of fear he detected. It was an interesting combination: fear, hate, and feigned innocence. He had killed for less than the expression she wore, and yet the voices stayed his hand at her insolence. Death clearly didn’t scare her, but he did. He both liked and hated that.
Before he really knew what he was doing, he descended the dais, almost desperate to be closer to her. Her obvious hate for his nephew warmed him to her even more. Rhys had always been a pathetic excuse for a Scythian. The moment Rhys struck her, something snapped inside Zane. Only knaves and cowards hit women. It was despicable, and no one touched what was his. Ever. It was an act which was not to be borne. His nephew had signed his own death warrant right then and there.
His gaze never strayed from the woman as he drew closer. Could she be the key to what he sought, or would she be the key to his destruction?
Sage
A large, calloused hand wearing several rings entered her vision. She stared at it. What kind of joke was this? He couldn’t mean to help her up.
“Take it, please,” his smooth voice said.
With no other option, Sage slipped her hand into his. He lifted her from the floor, and she swore she heard her bones creak. She met his gaze and dipped her chin as she pulled her hand away. “Thank you.”
A nod. He scanned her face slowly, taking all the time in the world. Then, he moved down the rest of her body, stopping here and there to examine a scar, a cut, a bruise. Was he admiring his man’s handy work? Looking for ways he could hurt her? She held herself stock-still as he walked around her as if he was inspecting chattel.
“What happened to her clothing?” he murmured, only loud enough for Rhys to hear.
“The other woman needed medical attention. Sage had to use her shirt as punishment for insubordination.”
The warlord hummed and paused by her side.
“Is she still pure?” The question lingered in the air.
“Of course, my lord. We wouldn’t dare touch what is yours.”
She forced herself to hold still when he caressed a scar along her hip, and then her wrist.
“How did she come by the scars?”
“She and I had…a disagreement, if you will,” Rhys replied smugly.
Her stomach churned at his lies.
“And the rest? She’s been beaten badly.”
“All deserved, I can assure you. She brought them on herself. She never stopped fighting.”
Another hum. “What do I cherish most in the world?” the warlord asked conversationally.
“Perfection.” Rhys’ response was automatic.
“What comes second?”
“Our line.”
“True,” the warlord answered, circling her again. “And who bears our lines?”
“Our women,” Rhys drawled.
Sage turned her head to follow the prowling warlord. All his pacing had her on edge. He stopped between Rhys and herself.
“Do we ever hurt our women?”
“No,” the monster replied, his mud-brown gaze darting from her to the warlord.
He glanced at her arm, and the warlord’s lips thinned just a touch. Slowly, he began circling her again. This time, she turned to keep her back from him. She was finished with his inspection.
A small smile tipped up his sensual lips. “I wondered when you would give up your submissive pose. You don’t have it in you to bend to someone else’s will.”
She bared her teeth at him, countering his movements. “You know nothing about me.”
“On the contrary, I know everything.” The warlord slid behind Rhys and whispered, “You shouldn’t have marred her. You know how I feel about that, and yet you disobey me.”
One moment, Rhys was staring smugly at her, and the next, he was gurgling on the floor, scarlet liquid slipping from his neck.
Her body flashed hot and cold, and a high ringing filled her ears. A tremor rippled through her body as Rhys gasped and writhed on the floor. Even as death claimed him, he managed to choke out something that would surely haunt her dreams.
“I’ll always be on your skin,” he coughed, and the light in his eyes dimmed.
She blinked. No.
Sage scrambled toward Rhys and dropped to her knees next to him. Carefully, she held a hand over his parted lips, shaking. Not one breath. “No,” she uttered as she frantically grabbed his wrist to feel for a pulse. Nothing. “No, no, no, no, no, no!”
Her eyes darted back to his face, and she gagged at his empty, unseeing eyes. He was gone. Dead in a matter of heartbeats.
No pain. A clean death. No suffering.
An ember of rage caught flame in her gut. How dare he die! “You bastard!” she screamed and slammed her fists on Rhys’ unmoving chest. “You don’t get to die! Breathe, damn it.”
Still, his chest didn’t move. He was dead.
He didn’t deserve a quick death. He didn’t deserve death at all! He deserved to rot and suffer in eternal hell like she did every day. A wail came out of her that didn’t seem physically possible. “Death was too good for him!”
Sage pulled her hands back and held up her shaking palms. They were red. Covered in blood. She retched, bile burning her throat and flooding her mouth. In a frenzy, she scrubbed her hands over her pants and half-corset, sobbing. She didn’t want him on her. Pushing up from her knees, she tried to stand, only for her feet to slip in the gore. Again, she gagged and scrubbed harder, but only succeeded in making it worse. Her body now looked like a garish painting of red, brown, and black.
Even in death, Rhys seemed to win.
Another sob broke loose as she lifted her head. The warlord was observing, completely calm, utterly unaffected by the murder he’d just committed.
“You,” she accused. “You killed him!”
A shrug. “He deserved to die for his actions.”
“He deserved to suffer,” she choked out as the warlord’s form blurred from her tears.
“My justice is swift. No one breaks my laws without punishment.”
“His life was mine!” she yelled. “Mine!” Sage flinched as her voice echoed in the room.
“Was it?” the warlord questioned softly, returning his blade to the sheath at his hip. “Is anything really yours? Every decision you’ve made has been guided or forced from you. Your life, your body, and e
ven your children will not be yours. He was mine, my subject to deal with.”
She had begun shaking during his little speech, tears still pouring from her eyes.
“It was justice.” He gestured at Sage. “He had no right to touch you. For that, he had a price to pay. You’re too valuable to ruin.”
She scoffed and sniffed, looking for Jasmine, while holding her arms out. “Your men have proved otherwise.”
The warlord barked, “Blair.”
The leader stepped away from the group of silent Scythians. “My lord.”
“Is what she says true? Did the men harm her?”
The leader stilled and flashed her a look that asked, Can you handle our deaths?
She swallowed, and tried to think through all the madness swirling inside her. She held many lives in her hands. Part of her wanted them all to die, but did they deserve to die because Rhys happened to be part of their party? No.
“Your men did not permanently harm me. They followed orders.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue.
“And the other woman?” the warlord asked.
“Anything that befell us was at the order of Rhys.” Her nausea rose up again. She’d just defended the enemy. What was wrong with her? She blankly stared at the grisly scene on the floor, no longer seeing anything.
“Indeed.” He addressed the leader: “Blair, make sure both women are cleaned, healed, and fed. Also, notify my sister that her son has died.”
A large hand touched her arm and something squished underneath. Sage pulled away and stared at the bloody handprint overlapping the silver scars of her forearm. The sight sickened her. She hunched forward and expelled what little there was remaining in her stomach, and watched it splash all over the dirty, bloody floor around her. She wiped the bile from her mouth and stood on wobbly legs, only to come face-to-chest with the warlord. When had he moved? She lifted both crimson-stained hands, and pushed against his chest while stepping back. But she was stopped short and hauled back when his hand wrapped around the back of her neck.