Bonds of Wrath (The Claiming Games #3)

Chapter 1

Logan

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

I accompany my father through the cold stone corridors of the training wing, my boots clicking against the polished floor. He walks with that measured pace of his — unhurried yet impossible to match without looking like you're trying too hard. The perfect metaphor for how he rules the kingdom.

"You need to choose a personal guard, Logan." Leopold doesn't look at me as he speaks, his eyes fixed ahead. "Someone loyal only to you."

As cocky as any teenager, I’m not exactly keen to have a shadow who ultimately reports to my damn father. “I’ve managed fine without one.”

"You've been lucky." His tone carries that edge that means the discussion is over. "A prince without protection is a dead prince."

We emerge onto a viewing balcony overlooking the training yard. Below, two dozen men clash in formation drills, their armor glinting in the early morning light. The sound of metal striking metal echoes up to us, punctuated by grunts and barked commands.

Leopold gestures at the men below. "These are the best we have. Watch them. Choose wisely."

My eyes scan the yard, noting strengths and weaknesses. Almost all Alphas. Most are built like oxen, all brute force and intimidation. Boring.

Then I spot a flash of quicksilver. This one is smaller than the rest by more than a head, moving with precision rather than power. Undersized, even for a beta. The others have noticed too. Their formations shift, isolating him. What began as training has morphed into something uglier.

Three guards corner him against the stone wall. A fourth circles behind. Not training. Hunting.

"Interesting," Leopold murmurs beside me. "Let's see how he handles this."

The small one's back is to the wall now. Four against one, with more circling like vultures. His chest rises and falls rapidly, sword up in a defensive stance.

I lean against the balcony rail, oddly invested in the outcome. "It would be a shame to watch a man die this early in the morning."

The king’s eyes cut to me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed. Though sometimes the smallest dogs have the sharpest teeth."

My attention returns to the training field. The small one doesn't move as his attackers advance. He doesn't retreat, or even so much as flinch. He just waits, sword raised, ice-blue eyes calculating.

His first attacker lunges with a predictable overhead strike.

The small one sidesteps, just barely enough to avoid injury, and uses his opponent's momentum against him, adding just enough force to send the larger man stumbling into the wall face-first. The crunch of cartilage breaking echoes satisfactorily across the yard.

"Impressive," Leopold murmurs.

Learning from their mistake, the second and third attackers move in together, obviously thinking to overwhelm the smaller fighter with numbers.

A rookie mistake. The small one drops to one knee, slashing at the nearest man's hamstring with his practice blade.

Not enough to cut, but enough to buckle the leg.

As that opponent falls, the small one rises in the same fluid motion, driving his elbow into the third attacker's throat.

Two down in seconds. The yard has gone quiet, the other training pairs now watching.

"He fights dirty," I observe, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.

"He fights to win," Leopold corrects. "There is a difference."

The fourth and last attacker circles cautiously now, having witnessed the fate of his companions. He must be smarter than the others, keeping his distance, testing with feints rather than committing.

The small one doesn't pursue. He waits, conserving energy, letting his opponent wear himself out with fancy footwork. When the attacker finally commits to a thrust, the small one parries just enough to redirect the blade past his ribs, then steps inside the man's guard.

What happens next is almost too fast to follow. A series of strikes to vulnerable points: throat, groin, the inside of the knee. The last attacker crumples, gasping in pain.

"What's his name?" I ask, unable to tear my eyes away.

Leopold consults a ledger. "Cillian. No family name listed. Orphan, recruited from the eastern provinces."

Cillian’s victory is short-lived. The first attacker has recovered and approaches from behind, blood streaming from his broken nose. He has abandoned his sword for a dagger pulled from his boot.

The warning leaves my lips before I can stop it. “Watch your back!”

Cillian spins, facing the threat at the last possible moment. His opponent’s dagger slashes across his arm, drawing blood, but he catches the attacker's wrist and twists. The crack of breaking bone is followed by a howl of pain.

The dagger clatters to the ground.

Cillian scoops up the fallen dagger and presses it to his attacker's throat, forcing him to his knees.

"Yield," he demands, voice surprisingly lilted and sounding barely out of breath.

The bleeding man nods frantically, eyes wide with fear.

Cillian steps back, tossing the dagger aside. He stands amidst his fallen opponents, chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm. His pale hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, but his ice-blue eyes remain calm, scanning the yard for the next threat.

There isn't one. The other guards keep their distance, a new wariness in their posture.

"He's fast."

"Speed over strength," the king agrees. "And intelligence. Did you notice how he let them underestimate him? Used their assumptions against them."

I nod, still watching as Cillian presses a cloth to his bleeding arm. "Four larger opponents, and he barely broke a sweat."

"He's bleeding," Father points out.

"A scratch. He'll live." I straighten, decision made. "I want him."

Father raises an eyebrow. "Are you certain? There are more experienced guards. Men with bloodlines, connections that could serve you politically."

“Subterfuge is the best political tool there is.” I meet my father's gaze steadily. “You saw him on the training field. Our enemies won’t see this one coming until it’s too late.”

King Leopold studies me for a moment, then nods, something like approval in his eyes. "Very well. Cillian will be assigned as your personal guard, effective immediately."

Below, the yard has returned to normal, the fallen attackers limping off to lick their wounds. Cillian stands alone, wrapping a bandage around his arm, seemingly unaware he's being observed.

"I'll have him brought to your quarters this afternoon," Leopold says, already turning to leave. "Try not to get him killed too quickly."

I linger at the railing after my father departs, watching Cillian return to his drills. There is something fascinating about how he moves. Economical. Precise. Not a single wasted motion. He trains alone now, the others giving him a wide berth.

Good. Let them fear him. Fear will keep them honest.

I push away from the railing, satisfied with my choice. Cillian doesn't know it yet, but his life has just changed forever.

TEN YEARS AGO

I frown at the map spread across the table, tracing my finger along a wide river that snakes through the territory. "If we position a unit here, we can control access to the village from the south."

Cillian leans in beside me, his pale hair falling forward as he studies the topography. "The terrain's too exposed. Snipers would have clear lines of sight from these ridges." He taps three elevated points on the map.

"Then we move under cover of darkness." I shift a cluster of markers representing our forces. "Come in from the east, through the forest."

"The locals say those woods are haunted." Cillian's tone is dry. "Apparently, anyone who enters at night never returns."

I snort. "Convenient story to keep people away. Makes me wonder what they're hiding in there."

"Or who." Cillian straightens, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. We've been hunched over these maps for hours. "When I agreed to follow you into military service, I imagined more debauchery and fewer logistics meetings."

His complaint pulls a laugh from me. "Disappointed?”

"Desperately." He gestures to the sparse command tent. "Not a single dancing girl or bottle of decent whiskey to be found. Your Highness has misled me terribly."

"The fun part comes after we liberate the village and find ourselves drunk in the nearest tavern surrounded by grateful maidens,” I remind him, more amused than I should be by his theatrics.

Cillian is as much a prima donna as he a natural born killer.

“You can't properly celebrate a victory before you've won it. "

"Says who?" Cillian counters. "I've celebrated plenty of things that never happened."

I'm about to respond when a distant boom echoes across the compound. We both freeze, instincts sharpening.

"That wasn't our artillery," Cillian says quietly.

Shouts erupt outside. "INCOMING!"

I lunge for my sidearm as Cillian reaches for his. The world explodes around us. A deafening blast that sends the table flying and rains debris down from the ceiling. My ears ring as I push myself up from the floor, disoriented. Smoke fills the room, thick and acrid.

"Logan!" Cillian's voice sounds distant through the ringing. A hand grips my arm, pulling me upright.

Pain lances through my side. I look down to see a jagged piece of metal embedded just below my ribs, blood already soaking my uniform.

"Shit," I mutter, the world tilting slightly.

"Don't touch it," Cillian orders, his voice clearer now. "We need to move."

Gunfire erupts outside, sporadic at first, then intensifying. Through the hole blown in our command tent, I catch glimpses of chaos — our soldiers scrambling for defensive positions as dark figures pour over the northern perimeter.

"Rebels," I growl. "How the hell did they get past our scouts?"

"Questions later." Cillian hefts his rifle, positioning himself between me and the entrance. "Can you walk?"

I nod, gritting my teeth against the pain. "I can fight."