27 #3
“Shit!” Tate roars, and I notice he’s just done the very same thing.
And then the Exots begin to advance.
One by one as they finish off whichever poor individual they’d last ruthlessly attacked, who would have been as unprotected as us, they turn our way, multiple different shades of Avri on hand in the form of whips, daggers, swords, axes . . . But they all have one thing in common:
They’re deep, dark crimsons.
And I’m guessing they’re not part of the general population, whose Avri clusters’ shades are based on their job’s skill level, if the way they move is any indication.
Thinking fast, I shout, “Grab anything you can use as a—”
A figure slams down in front of us, landing in a perfect crouch.
One knee and a fist on the ground for stability, the other arm outstretched to the right behind the slim back that faces us, armoury sticks are held tight in either hand.
Their helmeted head snaps up to glare into the faces of our assailants.
Arms crossing in front of her before whipping out either side of her in a diagonal line, her curved blades manifest from the batons in a blackish bloody glow as her lithe body shifts to the left while her right leg extends outwards into a larger, more menacing position.
A protective one.
Tate sucks in a sharp breath. “Havoc.”
The other Exots pause mid-step, exchanging subtle glances.
We all stare at the woman before us, stunned.
“Holy fucking shit—”
Tiger doesn’t get to finish his gasp that mirrors the overwhelming tumult of emotions within me—the shock, the awe, the elation . . . and the rapidly building one that has my heart straining to reach the extraordinary Exot we’ve claimed as ours—before the danger snaps into motion, rushing for us.
Ezla charges.
Two of the offending Exots are dead with an audible woosh!
of her Avri daggers in under a second, their helmets, along with the heads inside of them, thudding to the ground.
Then another and another, dropping like flies as our Bonded spins faster than the speed of light, hard to even track with my eyes as she parries and slashes and kicks out without mercy.
It’s the most brutal, stunning sight I’ve ever seen.
And we’re standing here like useless idiots.
It doesn’t matter how indestructible Ezla is—I’m protecting my Bonded. As I vow to do for the rest of my days from here on out.
“Grab anything!” I command, voice fierce with determination as I swivel around and hoist myself over the high bar top, palm pressing down on the gleaming white surface that somehow managed to avoid any crimson stains like the ones pooled all over the dance floor, infecting the once-clean air with a metallic tang.
Snatching up a bottle by its neck as the others follow my lead, I grab a fucking metal straw in my other hand, then smash the bottle on the bar before launching myself back over it and into the battle where our foes are all so focused on the peril that is Ezla Zefron they don’t even notice me coming until I’ve sunk the jagged glass into one of their necks, a wet gurgle sounding from behind the man’s visor.
When one of the Exots realises and switches his focus to us, Alby, with a battle cry I didn’t know he had in him, races forwards and jumps right onto him, similarly to how he did our Bonded in a moment that’s scarred into my mind from one of our first sessions with her.
But this time, he makes it effective combined with the training he’s received since then, stabbing his own broken bottle perfectly into the man’s carotid artery before riding the guy’s shoulders as one would a bull; he pounces off the Exot as he starts to topple and onto the next enemy like a monkey swinging from tree to tree.
Well . . . clearly Ezla brings out a new side in all of us.
Second most skilled in our group after our Bonded, Tate has already taken two men down and is on to his third when I tackle another of my own, and I notice Tiger and Cooper moving skilfully throughout the battling bodies too.
But it’s not so easy when we no longer have the advantage of surprise—these Exots must be some of the most skilled out there under the Champion, after all—and we start to take quite a few hits, pained grunts and cries ringing out.
Terror like no other rushes through me when Tiger’s met by a luminous dagger that sinks deep into his hip and tears down his thigh when he doesn’t dodge in time, and I throw myself his way without thought.
But before I can get to him, an armoury stick slams into my brow hard enough that, for a moment, all I can see is stars. I stumble backwards.
And when I orient myself . . . an axe is just inches away from my neck, the strength of the swing undoubtably about to sever my entire head in one fell swoop.
But what is the only thing that forms in my mind before my brutal demise?
An image of me, my brother, and the men who became family in only a couple of weeks, all surrounding the deadly woman who had already started to steal my heart.
And I would have been happy to give it to her.