by KC Kingmaker
Her eyes narrowed. “You know nothing, girl. You may have a shelter, but I have a home.”
I gritted my teeth. “Grefon will kill you, Pearl.”
“How dare—” she started off strong, but when she looked into my stark purple gaze, her words fell away.
“It may not be tonight, it may not be this year. But he will go too far, and he will kill you. I’ve seen it.”
Her bottom lip trembled.
“I’ve lived it,” I whispered, choking back my emotions. Damn booze bringing out my flapping tongue.
I held out my hand to her, now just inches from her face. “So, please . . . come with me. Let me take you away from all this.”
Her jittery eyes fell on my hand for a long moment, and I thought I had her. I thought she would take it.
But then she slapped it aside, the features on her bruised face twisting into a grimace.
“No! Grefon will find me,” she barked. “And then you’ll all be in trouble. As you said, Vera, he’s a member of the Belfuese Guard.”
I held my proffered hand as if it had been stung. There were too many women like this: victims bonding with their abusers after so many years of torture. It nearly brought me to tears, but this was a regular thing in my line of work.
There was only so much I could do, no matter how much it hurt to see.
“We have protection at the sanctuary, Pearl. Grefon won’t get to you. You have my word.”
“N-No,” she said, a bit less forcefully this time. She was losing her resolve, but so was I. “H-He loves me. In his own way—I know he does. He just doesn’t know how to show it sometimes.”
My lungs deflated, the air ripping out of my throat.
That was it, then.
She was as lost as so many others.
I suppose I was one of the lucky ones, but like I told myself too often: You can’t save everyone, Lev.
I stood to my full height and gave the woman a sharp nod, my jaw bunching. “Very well, Vera. Just remember my words, please. Men like Grefon Chornlotter don’t change.”
I reached into my tunic and saw her flinch. My hand came out holding a small piece of parchment, which was actually a tiny map. “This is where you’ll find us, if you ever come searching. You’ll find a home there, Pearl. A new home.”
With that, I turned around to leave.
At the door, I said, “We’ll be waiting. Always.”
And then I was gone, likely never to see Pearl Chornlotter in my life again.
The rain was coming down in heavy sheets now. It drenched me and sobered me at the same time, which seemed appropriate.
A FEW PACES OUT OF Pearl Chornlotter’s home, a figure strode up next to me, skipping along.
“You look like a sad, soggy puppy,” the woman said, looping her arm in mine.
I sighed and shook my head, staring down at the muddy ground as I sloshed through it. “Didn’t go as planned.”
“I see that. You can’t—”
“Save them all,” I finished for her. “I know, Blythe.”
She put her arm around me and squeezed me close as we walked through the rain, resting her soft curves against my body.
I couldn’t help but smirk. Yes, Blythe Telvis was voluptuous and cuddly. Though she was a head shorter than me, men gravitated to her like a drug. And she was only cuddly when she wanted to be. Like with me.
But she was a damn good sight for sore eyes and it helped cheer me up when she put an arm around my waist and tugged me close.
We walked in silence for a moment.
Finally, I said, “Really, though, Blythe. A ‘frail bird’?”
She threw her head back and barked a laugh. “Sorry! It was spur of the moment! I didn’t know what else to say.”
I frowned.
“I had to make you sound weak,” she added, fluttering her lashes at me.
I craned my neck, my chin resting perfectly on top of her head. I never got bored of doing that. “I know, I know,” I said. “I’m just teasing.”
She giggled.
“And how is Vero Chornlotter this fine, dreary evening?” I asked.
“Oh, he won’t be hurting his wife any time soon.”
I raised a brow at that.
“No, no, I didn’t off the bastard,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “Though I had a mind to.”
I smiled.
“Let’s just say he’s . . . incapacitated.”
I scratched the back of my head. “Hm. Guess I had more time with Pearl than I thought.”
I didn’t need more gory details from Blythe—I liked her to keep them to herself—but she was not a mousey woman, by any means.
“As you know, Lev, I’ve had more pricks than a pincushion,” she said nonchalantly. “But this one never even got close. Basically folded like a wet tent right when we entered the room upstairs.” She thought for a second, rubbing her chin. “I don’t think ‘tent’ is the right word, though. Vero Chormlotter didn’t do any pitching, if you get my meaning.”
My face was scrunched helplessly, and I just nodded profusely. “Yes, Blythe, I absolutely get your meaning. Please, spare me the rest.”
She lightly cuffed my shoulder. “Oh, stop it. I know you love it. Don’t be jealous.”
My eyes widened. “Jealous? What on Caan gave you that id—” I cut myself off, seeing the growing smirk on her full lips, noticing she was just teasing me right back.
“It’s good to see you smile,” she explained. “Also, I know you weren’t envious of my time with impy old Grefon, but I can’t say the same to you.”
I cocked my head. “Huh?”
“Who was that slab of perfection you kept eye-fucking in the corner of the tavern, girl?”
My cheeks burned. “What?! I don’t know! Just some eye candy? Never met the guy.”
“But I know you’d like to,” she teased.
I shrugged. “It’ll never happen. Besides, I was just drunk. Probably.”
Blythe tugged me closer. “Don’t sell yourself short. These things have a way of working themselves out.”
“I’ve always admired your optimism, Bly.”
She chuckled.
“I just hope I didn’t scare Pearl off by being too forceful.”
“What, you, drunk and demanding? Never.”
I caught the rolling of her eyes. She had a point: I had a tendency to get a bit harsh with the girls we rescued, especially when I had some liquid fire coursing through my veins.
It was something I needed to work on.
I just wanted so badly to help them.
Blythe rubbed my back. “I’m just playing again, Levy. I’m sorry—it was a bad joke. Don’t be sad.”
I smiled at her, but it was a sad smile.
“She’s just one of the lost ones,” Blythe said. “I’m sure she’s just scared of change more than anything. Even if staying means more bruises and broken bones.”
Those were the wisest words I’d heard from Blythe all night.
As we made it to our refuge—I noticed our conversation had brought us all the way here, which was no small feat—I hugged Blythe close, initiating the contact for once.
She was almost startled as my arms wrapped around her and I whispered raggedly into her ear, “I guess we’re all scared of change, aren’t we?”
3
Coalt
There was something strange about this one.
By all outward appearances, she seemed to be a perfectly mundane, Unscaled woman. She was somewhat frail, quite pretty, but nothing about her told me she was extraordinary.
As I watched her from the corner of the tavern, though, I knew this was the one whose power had drawn me to her. I had not been led astray. Even from a distance outside this pitiful town, my senses had crackled from this woman’s natural energy.
And while studying her, there were other things about the woman that piqued my interest.
She definitely had a bit of piss and vinegar in her veins, which was never a bad th
ing. Reminded me of the women back home in the Emberlands, and the thought brought a small smile to my lips.
When the woman first noticed me, she tensed. That was all well and good—most people went a bit taut when I confronted them.
But this was a different sort of tension. The way her knees drew inward, her body lighting up with shivers . . . was that a bit of desire mixed in with her fear?
Also not a terrible thing, on its face. Fear kept you aware, so you wouldn’t be blinded by the desire.
I had to shake my head and take a sip from my mug—this frothy, warm piss they called ale here.
I needed to make sure I wasn’t being blinded by the very thing I accused this one of, because there was no doubt she caused a bit of stirring in my body. I could feel myself growing hard underneath the table, straining against my pants.
This woman’s fear, after all, was well founded. Surely she knew I was big enough and strong enough to take her the moment she left this tavern.
But that wasn’t my way, and the men who thought that way were weak. The people who preyed on women didn’t last long in my society—they were shamed, ridiculed, and often exiled, if not getting their cocks cut off outright by the women they attacked.
Our women were fiery.
I was not like certain degenerates who dared call themselves brothers of the Summer House. I had to be better.
Even if some people questioned my authority or didn’t see eye to eye with me in my homeland, I had to portray that superiority.
As the son of the king, I had to be above the riffraff.
It was difficult sometimes, because I was quick to anger. My temperament was my greatest strength and, some would say, also my greatest weakness.
My sister would surely call it the latter.
But fuck her. She wasn’t the heir to the throne—she had abandoned any post when she left the Summer House. I had to make up for her transgressions against our people.
There was a war brewing back in the Emberlands. I could feel it in my bones as easily as I felt the lust for this strange Unscaled woman sizzling through my veins.
Ever since Father had died, things had fallen apart. I’d had no idea how much he held things together while in power, but the escalating tensions during his absence were palpable.
Things were on the brink of collapse. The seams that bound the Summer House together were unwinding, and I had to answer the call of duty.
I had to bring us back together.
Fernus forfend, it was why I was in this backwoods town in the first place, filled with weak Unscaled and the most destitute people of society.
I needed to remind myself that I came to this place—Belfue, the locals called it—for a reason.
My quest was a simple retrieval mission, and with it would come the things I needed to unite my people: power and, more importantly, the authority as the true heir to the Firesworn Throne.
As Coalt Firesworn, the son to Dante Firesworn and the only son of his name, I had a duty to keep the peace, before the Dominion conquered us fully.
But why did I have the itching suspicion this beautiful silver-haired vision would not just distract me, but also play a role in everything I must do?
I shuddered and pulled my hood tighter over my head, then downed my ale.
I chuckled to myself.
“Alas,” I said to no one. “A little fear is not a terrible thing.”
AS I CONTINUED OBSERVING the silver-haired beauty, I felt a bit of respect for her I hadn’t had before. Seeing how she handled herself in the midst of ogling and pushy men was admirable.
And if it wasn’t respect I felt, well, at the very least it was amusement.
I had seen the way her hand gripped the handle of her mug while talking to that drunk buffoon. White knuckles, a bobbing knee, impatience—the signs were all there.
If she hadn’t been saved from her own temper by that busty harlot on the other side of the man, I had no doubt she would have eventually swung that clay mug directly in the drunkard’s face.
I was smirking as I watched the interaction, practically begging her to take that swing. I’m sure I would have broken out in belly-rumbling laughter if she had.
Then I noticed the women knew each other, and it piqued my interest again. Of course, the horny toad of a man was too sauced to see it, but the indications were all there.
What were these two women playing at? In a town that was clearly ruled by men and their terrible whims, what could these two young women be trying to do here?
I doubted their motivation was money. No, there were much easier ways to coax a man out of his Oblyx Scraps than whatever they were doing.
When the short curvy one led the man upstairs a moment later, it gave me pause. Perhaps I’d been wrong about the women’s familiarity with one another.
But just as quickly as they left, my silver-haired beacon was up off her stool, heading out the door.
She glanced at me and tightened up again. I almost snorted aloud when she bumped into the table in front of her.
She knew I was watching, so I waited to see how she would react—
And the way she kicked out that predator’s chair from under him. Ha!
I slapped my palm on the table as she exited the tavern, though I didn’t think she heard my laugh.
I had to wonder, was that simple act a warning . . . to me, perhaps? As if to say, “Don’t try anything, stranger.”
Because if it was, I heard her loud and clear.
Yet it still enticed me more than anything.
As I stood from the table and readjusted my hood, I noticed the drunks at the table glowering at me. There were five of them. Two were helping up their ringleader from his embarrassing fall.
“What’s your deal?” the man named Bastio said upon righting himself. He was a bit wobbly, now standing with his palms on the table.
I cocked my head, looked up from under my hood, but said nothing. Usually my amber eyes said everything for me.
This man didn’t catch the message.
“I heard you laughing!” he wailed, thrusting a finger at me. “Were you laughing at me? For what that bitch did?”
I thought that over for a second. “Yes.”
He was taken aback. His fingers clumsily danced around his waist, near the handle of a dagger that hung there—near, but not nearly close enough.
I could have taken his fingers off at the knuckles before he’d even drawn that sad excuse for a weapon.
Clearly, a man like this felt empowered with his men around him. His mob. The same went to that black-bearded fool upstairs. They felt safe in their surroundings at this warm, cozy, stinking tavern.
For a moment, I thought about showing them the error of their ways.
Then I simply shook my head, eyes tilted toward his roaming hand. “Not wise,” I warned.
My tone must have alerted his friends, because a couple of them seemed suddenly put off. “Hey, Bastio, uh, how ‘bouts we just call it a night, yeah? There’s gonna be plenty of birds here tomorrow, I’m sure”
My eyes didn’t leave Bastio. “Your friend sounds reasonable. I’d listen to him.”
“D-Don’t tell me what to do!” Bastio growled, though he was losing his mettle and the tenuous grip over his mob.
Two fingers fell on the handle of his dagger and I reached a hand out from underneath my cloak.
Bastio’s four friends flinched.
“Keep that little thing in your pants,” I demanded.
His bleary eyes widened as my innuendo became clear. “Why you . . . bastard . . .”
“Not quite,” I said. I shrugged and walked past him before he could react further. I had pushed him far enough.
But at the door, I couldn’t help myself. It was in my nature to rile people up because people like this needed to be dealt a swift hand so they didn’t grow and become an infestation.
Give the weed room to bloom, and you’re only allowing its inevitable overgrowth. Enabling it, even.
I stepped outside into the light rain, not bothering to shut the door behind me.
“Oh, so you’re keen on that silver cunny too, huh?” I heard him say, his voice following me outside.
I turned to the right, out of the doorway so they were out of sight, but only so they didn’t see my body flexing, my hands knotting into fists at my sides as rage swelled inside me.
“Come on, boys,” Bastio said, his voice nearly drowned out by the pattering of the rain. “Maybe we go find the silver whore and show her a piece of our mind, eh?”
I ground my teeth so hard they nearly cracked.
And Bastio foolishly was the first one to exit the tavern.
My fist arced across the open door the moment his leading foot stepped out, whipping his head and breaking every bone on that side of his face.
Bastio screamed and flew to his knees. His four lackeys were squeezing through the doorway together.
I slid back on my heels into the rain, my sword flashing out of its scabbard in an instant.
The four men surrounded me but drew no further than five paces.
“Fuck, look what he did to Bastio!” one of the guys said.
“S-Shit, but, uh, look at his fucking eyes!”
I could feel they had flared from amber to orange flames that lit up the night. It happened when I was angry, and Bastio’s words had pissed me off.
I didn’t even know the silver-haired woman. But as I was taught, men who thought the way Bastio did—they needed to be culled.
The four men fumbled for their weapons.
Bastio was rising to his feet, holding his broken face with one hand, drawing his dagger with the other.
“I don’t give a fuck what he is!” Bastio growled, raising his dagger high. “Kill the freak!”
He charged at me, leading his men. I sighed, realizing I’d brought this upon myself.
He made it three paces—
My sword snapped out in a blur.
The hand cradling his cheek flew away into the mud—
Bastio’s head followed a second later, thudding to the ground while his body stayed erect for a moment, a geyser of blood pumping into the air.