Chapter 18 – Rowan
ROWAN
Ikeep my silent vigil as my eyes stay trained on the tent entrance. Every little rustle or noise sets my teeth on edge. Exhaustion clouds my mind, threatening to take me under against my will. It’s only the bitter taste of fear that keeps it at bay.
For now.
The captain has been gone a long time.
The tent flaps rustle, and a lump forms in my throat at the appearance of two Kovari soldiers. But neither of them are the captain. The relief is fleeting.
But these two look familiar…
I recognize the bulkier one as the oaf they call Nash, the soldier who was far rougher than necessary when escorting me to this tent earlier.
I gave him a little love bite to remember me by. The rage in his eyes says he’s still thinking of me.
But it’s Nash’s friend who catches my attention. He’s standing a few feet away, taking a cursory glance over the empty tent. The smile on his face only grows when he confirms the three of us are alone. Fear trickles down my spine.
Awkwardly, and on shaking knees, I drag myself to my feet. Wishing—not for the first time—I had some way to get to my knife.
“I see Ayer hasn’t played with his new toy yet,” Nash says, looking me over in a way that sends acid rising up my throat.
“I would’ve wasted no time unwrapping my present if I were him,” the shorter one says, then winks at me.
My skin crawls at the implication, and I desperately try again to free my hands.
The man, whose name I don’t know, saunters closer, letting loose a low whistle as he unabashedly looks me over.
“Oh, what I would do with you.” His eyes linger too long upon my heaving chest, and I glower at him, unable to cuss him out properly with the cloth still tied tight in my mouth.
The man looks back at Nash. “Keep an eye out.”
Nash snickers in response and takes up watch by the tent’s entrance.
I look away, refusing to engage with the sociopath as he steps closer.
Fingers dig into my chin, forcing my face forward—forcing my gaze back to him. He smiles, dragging his thumb along the curve of my mouth.
I grind my teeth hard on the gag; the scrap of cloth is all that saves him from losing a digit.
He notices and lets loose a chuckle. “I love it when they’ve got a fight in them.” Desire flashes in his muddy brown eyes while he continues to stare at my mouth.
I twist, wrenching my chin out of his grip with a toss of my head, but he steps closer until he’s pressing into me, catching my hips between his and forcing me back under him.
His acrid scent fills my nose, along with the sharp, stringent scent of alcohol.
I stop wiggling when he leans in further, his stubby fingers wandering down my trembling side until they find the tear in my skirt.
I freeze.
Heart racing, everything in me recoils at the feel of his hand on my skin. The man’s mouth curves up into a dark grin before his fingers slip beneath the fabric.
Unable to run or scream, I jerk my head away again. The cuffs dig deeper as I strain, and pain explodes in my wrists as I put all my remaining strength into pulling free, desperately searching for any means of escape.
The cold iron holds firm.
The soldier grabs my face again with his free hand, much rougher this time with a bruising grip on my jaw. “Ah, ah, ah, no escaping,” he taunts, his hand dangerously high on my thigh and slowly inching north as he savors my discomfort.
It’s a fight to clear my mind that’s paralyzed in terror at what’s happening—at what’s about to happen—until a fresh fear enters my mind.
The dagger.
If he runs his hand up a few more inches, he’ll find my dagger.
No. No! It’s all I have left.
The thought of him taking it—and more—sends a violent tremor throughout my entire body. I stop fighting him. Reluctantly, I lift my eyes until they meet his, holding his gaze while locking my jaw.
Thinking he’s won, a smug smile appears on the man’s face. His head turns slightly as he calls back over his shoulder to Nash. “There. You see. You just have to show ‘em who’s boss and—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because I give no warning before I ram my knee up hard, throwing every ounce of strength I have into it.
Right between his legs.
“Fuck!” The Kovari soldier stumbles backward, sputtering out a wide variety of curses and other obscenities. “You little fae rat!” His face reddening by the second.
Lifting my chin, I give him a little wink.
He’s still bent over, sucking in air. His face now a violent shade of purple as he fights to recover. Breathing hard, he finally draws himself up, stepping toward me and raising an arm. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
I close my eyes, my jaw tightening, bracing for the hit—or worse—but… it doesn’t come.
“Riggs.”
My eyes snap open at the harsh tone, a new voice, coming from the direction of the tent’s entrance.
A single word. It must be the man’s name.
Riggs’ fist is frozen midair, just inches from my face.
He glares at me, giving me one last look, promising death, before letting his fist drop to his side with a disgruntled huff.
He looks to the sky, jaw working, before he straightens his shoulders, turning to face the captain standing in the doorway.
“Ayer,” Riggs grits out.
The room suddenly feels colder, shadows deepening as Captain Rusic—Ayer—turns his icy glare on the man, and a tense silence fills the room.
Nash stands sheepishly off to the side, avoiding Rusic’s gaze.
“Captain,” Riggs corrects with venom in his tone, just barely inclining his head.
I can practically smell the animosity between the two.
“Nash and I were awaiting your return when your little fae whore got mouthy.” He shrugs his shoulders, a bit too casually, while throwing a flippant wave in my direction.
Ayer’s gaze flicks to mine for a fraction of a second before settling back on Riggs.
I watch the exchange with wide eyes, breathing hard as I find myself caught between two predators and still with no way to defend myself. It’s a struggle to catch my breath with the dirty cloth obstructing my mouth.
I realize Ayer already knows Riggs is lying, but the gag, still tied tight, prevents me from saying anything.
The captain tilts his head, more wolf than man in this moment, before prowling deeper into the tent. The large space abruptly feels too small in the wake of his presence.
Behind him, I notice Wyatt slip into the tent. Another soldier accompanies the younger one, both of them dressed in the same black armour that Ayer wears, different from the gleaming silver of Riggs and Nash. The two of them rest their hands casually on their scabbards as they trail Ayer in.
Riggs notices them too and clicks his jaw, eyeing Wyatt and the other newcomer before shooting an uneasy glance at Nash.
“If you’re busy, we can come back later.”
Ayer halts a few paces away, contempt written plainly across his face as his gaze settles on Riggs.
“Get out.”
Ayer’s words are quiet but lethal; violence simmers in every well-articulated consonant.
Riggs is smart enough to sense it too, and neither he nor Nash need to be told twice. He’s already moving, skirting carefully around the captain and his men, taking care to stay out of reach before making for the exit, his eyes on the captain the whole time.
But the captain isn’t watching him—he’s watching me.
It’s an effort not to squirm under the intensity of the man’s gaze.
Riggs is only inches from the exit when Ayer speaks again, his eyes never leaving mine. “And Riggs?”
The soldier stops on a dime, reluctantly turning back to face the captain while still side-eyeing escape. “Yes, sir?” he replies with venom in his tone.
“Don’t touch what’s mine.” Ayer’s warning hangs in the air, and a violent tension radiates throughout the room.
Riggs scowls at me—like all of this is somehow my fault—before giving Ayer a curt nod, then quickly disappearing between the tent flaps. Nash, along with Wyatt and his friend, follow closely behind.
As soon as Riggs disappears from sight, a breath rushes from my lungs. Only then do I realize I’d been holding it through the entire exchange.
I draw in a deep inhale, desperate to ease the ache in my chest, but it never reaches my lungs.
Ayer is watching me.
His gaze catches mine, sharp and unrelenting, and the breath stalls halfway down my throat.
My relief dies as quickly as it came. Riggs may be gone, but I’ve only traded one predator for another.