Chapter 18 Kovrak #2
But then Kovrak saw it: Varrek’s almost imperceptible nod toward the arena’s edge.
Steel glinted in his peripheral vision. An assassin crouched among the spectators, a crossbow aimed with lethal intent at Kovrak’s heart.
Before he could react, Faith’s scream shattered the air. “Stop!”
She broke into the ring with reckless courage, reaching his side at the precise moment the bolt flew. Her interference altered the trajectory just enough—instead of piercing his heart, the projectile tore through muscle and sinew along his ribs.
Pain detonated through his body, driving him to the ground as blood soaked his white fur. But through the agony, he understood her sacrifice. She had saved his life.
Varrek advanced for the killing blow, and Faith placed herself between them without hesitation.
“You need me alive,” she said, weaponless but unyielding. “For legitimacy. For your precious crown.”
Varrek’s tiger form towered over her, calculating the truth in her words. Then his massive paw swept out, batting her aside like a broken doll.
She hit the sand hard but rolled to her feet with surprising resilience, immediately moving to block his path again.
When Varrek raised his paw with lethal intent, something ancient and absolute tore free inside Kovrak. His mate—his brave, reckless, perfect mate—was about to die for him.
Not today. Not ever.
He rose on shattered breath and primal fury alone, ignoring the fire spreading through his wounded side. In one explosive surge of will, he closed the distance between them.
Varrek’s focus remained fixed on Faith, calculating how to eliminate the obstacle without damaging his political prize.
It was the last mistake he would ever make.
Kovrak’s jaws found Varrek’s throat before the other male could pivot, before he could realize death had arrived on silent paws.
There was a brief, violent struggle—claws scraping against stone, a strangled roar cut short—then Kovrak’s sharp teeth pierced through flesh and sinew, ending Varrek’s cruelty for good.
The arena fell silent except for the sound of Varrek’s lifeless body hitting the sand.
His shift back into human form felt like pure torture. Kovrak hit the sand on his knees, the transformation robbing what little strength remained as the crossbow bolt tore deeper through muscle with the change. He could smell his own blood—coppery and sharp—soaking the sand beneath him.
Then she was there. Faith slid to her knees in front of him, her hands already pressing against the wound with a pressure that made stars explode behind his eyes. Her touch was fierce yet gentle.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” she commanded, her voice rough with adrenaline.
Thalen materialized at his other side a heartbeat later, his face grim. “You couldn’t just win cleanly, could you? Had to make it dramatic.”
“Shut up and pull it out,” Kovrak gritted out through clenched teeth.
Thalen didn’t hesitate. One solid yank, and the steel shaft came free with a sickening slide of torn flesh.
Kovrak’s vision tunneled, the world fading to gray static at the edges.
He heard Faith’s sharp intake of breath, felt her hands shift to clamp down harder as fresh blood pulsed between her fingers.
“It’s out,” Thalen announced, tossing the bloody bolt aside. Healers swarmed in, their hands efficient as they packed the wound with thick gauze, binding it tight with lengths of linen. The pressure was immense, a vise of pain that stole his breath.
“You’re going to be fine now,” Faith said, her face pale but her gaze locked on his.
Kovrak managed a ragged breath. “You… stepped in front of him.”
“He was about to kill you.”
“And he could have killed you.” The thought sent a fresh wave of fury through him that momentarily eclipsed the pain.
“But he didn’t,” she said, her thumb stroking the back of his hand where she held it in a death grip. “You saved me. You ended him for good.”
Thalen and two other warriors moved in, lifting him carefully onto a stretcher.
The world tilted, the sky spinning above him.
Kovrak fought to stay conscious, his alpha instincts raging against the helplessness of being carried.
This was not how a king returned to his palace.
This was not the victory procession he’d imagined.
Faith never let go of his hand. She kept pace with the stretcher as they moved toward the waiting transport.
As they loaded him into the vehicle, the bitter irony settled in his gut like a stone.
He had pictured this day so differently.
The gardens at dusk. Her innovative dessert—fire and sweetness—served as a symbol of their union.
The perfect, private proposal beneath the twin moons. A celebration of a future secured.
Not this. Not a medical wing and recovery. Not the metallic taste of blood and the lingering scent of violence.
The transport engine roared to life. Faith climbed in beside him, cradling his head in her lap as Thalen took the driver’s seat. Her fingers stroked through his hair, a soothing rhythm that grounded him against the jostling pain.
Through the haze, the truth burned with absolute clarity. Varrek was dead. Faith was safe beside him. His kingdom was still his. And the crown was finally within reach.
He turned his head. “The final dessert…”
Faith let out a watery laugh, her fingers stilling in his hair. “Really? That’s what you’re worried about right now?”
“I wanted to taste what we symbolized together,” he managed, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Fire and sweetness, remember?”
She leaned down, her breath warm against his ear. “Then I’ll give you the best damn dessert you’ve ever tasted.”
He closed his eyes, letting her promise anchor him against the pain. They won today. The future was theirs to claim on their own terms.