The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 23

23

My bruised ribs protest as I sag against the rocks, every muscle quivering with fatigue.

Kiaran braces his hands on his knees, head bowed as he works to slow his breathing. I take the opportunity to study him. Even drenched and dishevelled from our plunge into the frigid river, the fae is devastatingly gorgeous.

He glances up, catching me staring. Heat scalds my cheeks, and I drop my gaze, clearing my throat. I gesture toward the prone, lifeless bodies of the massive cu? si?th hounds scattered nearby on the muddy riverbank.

“Well,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “That was invigorating.”

Kiaran arches a brow. “Only you would describe nearly being mauled to death as invigorating .”

“It was a refreshing change of pace from gossiping over canape′s at an interminable society ball.” I pluck at my sodden, tattered ballgown, grimacing at the rips in the delicate silk. “Although this dress is utterly ruined. Pity. I rather liked this one. Excellent shade of green.”

“Yes, clearly the real tragedy of the night,” he says dryly.

I feel the weight of his gaze tracking over my skin like a caress, cataloguing every cut and purpling bruise marring flesh already littered with scars. The fresh hurts layered over those that will never fully heal. His hands flex at his sides, as if itching to reach out and erase each one.

“Are you all right?” The question is soft. Careful.

I dredge up a smile from somewhere. “Nothing permanently damaged. Just remind me that diving into an icy river in the dead of winter is an experience best not repeated.”

My nonchalance doesn’t fool him for a second. Kiaran steps closer. I’m suddenly, excruciatingly aware of the sight I must make—soaked to the bone, hair a wild tangle, dress hanging off me in shreds. He’s seen me post-battle plenty, but rarely this battered. This drained.

“You’re certain you’re not injured?” He lifts a hand as if to touch my shoulder, then seems to think better of it, letting it fall back to his side. “Nothing broken that needs tending?”

“I’m sure. Just some spectacular new bruises to add to my collection.” Trying for humour, I add, “I’ll be fine after a hot bath and a very large whiskey.”

His mouth twitches—a wry, almost-smile ghosting across his lips. But his stare remains sombre, missing none of the details—the way I’m still shivering, the slight hitch in my breathing.

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Now that we’ve survived our impromptu plunge into the river, shall we be off? I’m losing feeling in some troubling areas.”

Kiaran’s eyes tighten, flickering over me again with that searching intensity. Before I can stop him, he slowly lowers himself to the rocky ground, gingerly extending his leg.

I gape at him in surprise. He’s hurt, and I didn’t even notice amidst the chaos. What a stubborn bastard.

That subtle admission of weakness seems to cost him. I know well how fiercely Kiaran guards any vulnerability. Centuries spent surviving must have taught harsh lessons about baring soft underbellies to those who might slide a blade between the ribs. Trust does not come easily to him.

The temperature drops as he summons his power. Ice crystals creep across the muddy riverbank, glittering in the moonlight. He’s pulling deep from the well to mend bone and knit flesh. I can only imagine how much more it’s costing him, with his reserves already bled out on the hounds.

After a long, torturous moment, Kiaran straightens, swiping rain-damp hair back from his forehead with one forearm. His skin is even paler than usual. But his movements no longer carry that subtle guarded hesitation from before. The worst is healed.

I collect my remaining daggers, returning them to their various sheaths. I feel marginally more human with weapons in hand. The ritual of it centres me, grounds me in the present.

We’ve barely made it a dozen strides up the river before a dark pressure crashes over my mind like a wave. Sends me staggering, reeling. I scan the shadows under the ancient stone bridge, every sense screaming a warning.

He’s here.

“Kameron?”

Fury blinds me. I’m on my feet and sprinting up the muddy riverbank before conscious thought can overpower primal instinct.

“ Kameron ! ” Kiaran’s shout echoes behind me, but it’s muted, as if reaching me through a long tunnel.

I ignore him, launching myself into the underbrush lining the river’s edge, heedless of clawing branches and brambles tearing my skin. Seeking only that telltale ripple of movement ahead, signalling my prey is near. He was following his pack of cu? si?th, now lying dead and broken downstream.

I explode from the treeline and collide with Arion in a maelstrom of fury. We hit the ground hard, a tangle of limbs and bared teeth and murderous intent.

I smash my fist into his face, taking vicious satisfaction in the crunch of cartilage. The hot gush of blood.

But he only laughs.

The sound raises every hair on my body, sends primal fear lancing through my gut. I know that laugh; I’ve heard it echoing through countless nightmares of pain and violation.

Power ripples off him in waves. It slams into me, forcing me down in the filth. As he rises, Arion studies me like an insect pinned beneath his boot.

“Stay on your knees.” A command vibrating in my bones. “In the mud where you belong. Grovelling at my feet.”

“Because you’re afraid to fight me?” I rasp.

His lips twist in a sneer. He seizes a fistful of my hair. I bite my lip to stifle a scream.

His gaze rakes over my exposed throat, lingering on the marks he left behind. Greedily tracing the puckered scar tissue. “I wonder if your pet fae rutting between your thighs has seen all our pretty marks on you. Does he kiss them when he fucks you? Trace them with his tongue and think of me?”

I spit in his face. His answering backhand splits my lip. I blink away stars, fighting the grey at the edges of my vision. I can’t afford to lose consciousness. Not now.

Before I can brace myself, his power crashes over me again. I bow beneath the pressure, pinned under his will. Chains around my throat, pressing me into the dirt, into my place at his feet.

“Where’s that clever tongue now? Maybe it’s time I rip it out of your mouth. Would you still be so insolent then?”

He gives me a shove that sends me sprawling sideways. I don’t even have a second to recover before his boot slams brutally into my ribcage. I hit the ground and skid, fresh pain exploding through my battered body. For a moment, all I can do is lie there, sucking in what shallow breaths my compressed lungs will permit.

Through the ringing in my ears, I hear Arion’s mocking voice. “Pathetic,” he sneers from above. “To think how easily the last Falconer falls. You scarcely fought last time. Hardly worth my attention.”

Rage is a living thing clawing at my insides. My fingers scrabble at my thigh, close around a dagger’s hilt. I lash out, burying the blade in his leg. Wrench it, savage with triumph when he bellows.

In a blur of motion, he has me by the throat, crushing the breath from me. His eyes are empty black pits boring into mine.

“No more games,” he snarls.

His grip tightens, cutting off my air. Sparks swarm my vision, narrowing to a pinprick. He’s going to snap my neck. Leave me broken and lifeless in the river.

A snarl shatters the night. Kiaran explodes from the darkness and slams into Arion with enough force to make the ground quake. Rocks plume into the air from the impact.

The choking grasp around my throat vanishes. I roll hard, sucking in deep lungfuls of sweet, cold air. Through hazy eyesight, I make out Kiaran pinning my would-be killer effortlessly beneath his boot. The ancient fae warrior’s face could have been carved from obsidian, lips peeled back in a soundless snarl.

“Give me one reason not to separate your spine at the neck,” Kiaran growls, words guttural. Barely recognisable as speech.

The air grows frigid. I inhale sharply in the sudden chill, my breath fogging. Frost creeps rapidly over the earth as icy tendrils swirl through the rain. At Kiaran’s feet, shadows come alive, coiling and swirling around Arion’s prone form.

“Kiaran.” My voice emerges as barely a ruined rasp. I cough to clear it. “Kiaran. He’s mine.”

Those eerie eyes find mine, molten silver. They take in the damage painted across my skin. Charting each new hurt, each fresh humiliation. When his gaze meets mine again, it blazes with the kind of fury that razes empires to ash.

“Then command me.” A near-gasp, clipped and harsh. “Make it fast.”

He’s handing me the power to decide Arion’s fate, I realise. Granting me control even though his own hangs by an unravelling thread.

“Let me finish him,” I manage.

A muscle tics in Kiaran’s jaw, but he jerks a nod. The shadows slither up Arion’s limbs, hoisting him to his knees. Binding him in place.

Primed for slaughter.

Like an offering, Kiaran holds him. Fist knotted in his hair, forcing that pale throat to arch. Bared to my blade. My judgement.

I retrieve my dagger and approach on unsteady legs. The steel glints, still tacky with Arion’s blood. He meets my advance with that empty, fathomless stare. His lips peel back, exposing those gleaming fangs in a mockery of a smile.

“Nothing to say?” he asks. “No final curses for me?”

For once, words fail me. I’ve already screamed every profanity I know into the darkness of too many sleepless nights. What more is there to say?

Deliberately, I lean in. Bring my mouth to the shell of his ear. “Try not to scream,” I breathe against him. “You’ll draw attention.”

And I shove the knife into his throat.

He bucks, gagging. That mocking mouth works, but only a choked rattle emerges. Blood sheeting hot over my knuckles.

I hold him there, pinned like a butterfly, until the last ugly spasm rolls through him. Until his eyes glaze over and he sags in Kiaran’s grip.

Until the monster who haunts my nightmares shudders and goes still.

Only when death’s final quake passes through him does Kiaran allow the body to topple sideways into the mud. I slide my slick weapon free with a wet noise that turns my stomach. But my hands are steady as I wipe it clean mechanically on my tattered skirts.

Numbness steals through my limbs, leaching away the frantic pulse of danger, of almost-death. Leaving me empty. Let down after being wound too tight for too long. Just like with Thalion, I feel nothing. No triumph. Just bone-deep exhaustion threatening to pull me under.

Victory tastes like ashes on my tongue.

Kiaran nudges the corpse with his boot. “Burn it and scatter the ashes in the river, or would you prefer I mount his head somewhere?”

“No.” I scour a hand down my face, heedless of the blood and filth. “No, let’s avoid leaving severed heads or burning...anything, really. Just get rid of it. I want to know for sure he’s dead.”

Kiaran lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. “As you wish.”

Despite the casual words, I sense the rage still simmering beneath his skin. The fury coiled tight inside the controlled, composed exterior he presents to the world. In this moment, Kiaran is violence barely leashed.

He crouches and places one hand flat on Arion’s motionless chest. I watch as inky tendrils spread outward from his splayed fingers. They creep over Arion’s corpse, dissolving flesh and bone to ash in their wake. Erasing all evidence of the gruesome work done here tonight.

The steady rain washes the last traces of blood from my skin.