Chapter 8
Nansar
Dawn crept through the purple canopy in threads of pale gold, painting the forest floor in a shifting mosaic of light and shadow.
My eyes opened before the sun fully rose—a habit carved into me during my years on Palaydium.
Strange how exile changed you. Back when I was the Duke's pampered son at the citadel, I'd have slept until the sun stood high overhead.
Now I woke before it breached the horizon.
I remained motionless, letting the forest's morning song wash over me. Unfamiliar birds called to one another in the distance. Leaves whispered secrets to the breeze. Something small and unseen rustled through the undergrowth, hunting or being hunted.
Starfield's breathing came steady and deep from where she rested nearby. And beside the great beast, curled into a small ball with her hands tucked beneath her cheek like a sleeping youngling, lay Chloe.
I couldn't look away.
In sleep, the tension that drew her features tight had melted away. Her dark red hair spilled across her forehead in waves that caught the filtered light and turned it to copper. Her lips parted slightly with each breath. She looked peaceful. Vulnerable.
Beautiful.
The thought ambushed me, slipping through defenses I'd thought secure.
And with it came the inevitable physical response—that damned tingling at the base of my horns, the prickling warmth that spread along their length like fire through dry grass.
Involuntary. Instinctive. Primal. And utterly, catastrophically inconvenient.
I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached and forced my gaze away from her. This was madness. She was human—fragile, traumatized by whatever horrors Hewes had inflicted on her. The absolute last thing she needed was me entertaining base urges I had no intention of acting upon.
I rose as quietly as a shadow, careful not to disturb either Chloe or Starfield, and gathered our empty waterskins.
The creek wasn't far—I'd listened to its gentle voice all through my restless night.
As I walked through the mist-shrouded forest, I rubbed at the base of my horns, trying futilely to ease the persistent itch. It accomplished nothing.
The forest held an unusual quiet this morning. Yesterday's pursuers had vanished completely, either far away or—more likely—dealt with permanently.
Ahrick's work, I suspected. The thought brought grim satisfaction.
I hoped he'd been thorough. Persico didn't tolerate failure, and dead males couldn't report which direction we'd fled.
Cool, damp air kissed my skin, heavy with the scent of moss and wet earth. At the creek's edge, I knelt on smooth stones and began filling the waterskin, watching crystal-clear water flow over my hands.
My mind circled back to Chloe's reaction yesterday. The way she'd flinched from my touch as though I'd struck her. The raw terror that had flooded her eyes when I'd moved too quickly. The way she'd said she didn't like to be touched, as if the very concept caused her physical pain.
What had that bastard done to her?
Something terrible. Something that left scars deeper than any blade could carve. The possibilities that paraded through my mind made my blood run hot with barely leashed rage.
Had he beaten her? Forced himself on her? Both? Or something even worse that I couldn't bear to contemplate?
My grip tightened on the waterskin, my claws puncturing the treated leather before I realized what I was doing. I forced myself to relax before I destroyed it completely, drawing a long breath. But the anger remained, molten and seething beneath a thin crust of control.
The thought of anyone hurting Chloe—of this Declan putting his filthy hands on her, causing her pain, breaking something precious and irreplaceable inside her—ignited something murderous in me.
Something I barely recognized. I wasn't like many warriors.
As the Duke's son, I'd grown up surrounded by guards, sheltered from real violence.
I could count the males I'd killed in combat on one hand. Bloodlust was foreign to me.
But this? This felt personal in a way that terrified me.
If I ever encountered this Declan, the human would die. Slowly. Painfully. And I would savor every moment of his suffering.
I finished filling the waterskin and stood, slinging it over my shoulder. I needed to get back. Chloe would wake soon, and I didn't want her to be alone and frightened.
I started back through the trees, my footfalls silent on the forest floor, my mind churning with dark thoughts of vengeance against a man I'd never met but already despised with every fiber of my being.
That's when I heard the screaming.
Chloe's voice, high-pitched and terrified, shattered the peaceful morning like breaking glass.
I ran, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest like a war drum.
I burst through the tree line and the scene before me turned my blood to ice, then immediately to liquid fire.
Chloe was on the ground just beyond the trees.
A Romvesian—lean and gray-skinned with those distinctive ridged foreheads—had her slender wrists trapped above her head.
An Ardurian, stocky with mottled green skin and yellow eyes, was between her spread legs, his hard cock jutting outward as he fumbled obscenely with her clothing while she thrashed and screamed.
"No! Get off me! NO!"
Fool. The word blazed through my mind like a brand.
I'd been so lost in my own thoughts, so consumed by the itch of my horns and everything I'd been trying not to think about, that I hadn't heard them approach. Hadn't sensed the danger until it was already upon her. Stalking her.
They should never have gotten this close. But I'd been too busy wallowing in my own head, and Chloe was paying the price for my distraction.
She fought like a wild creature, bucking and twisting, her small body straining with desperate strength.
But she was so tiny compared to them, so heartbreakingly fragile.
The Ardurian backhanded her viciously across the face, the sharp crack of flesh on flesh echoing through the clearing, snapping her head to the side.
Something instinctive and savage roared to life inside my soul, my vision going red at the edges.
I didn't think. Didn't plan. I simply moved, pure instinct driving me forward like a spear thrown by an unseen hand.
My blade was in my hand before I consciously drew it.
The Ardurian didn't even see me coming, too focused on his vile intentions.
I drove the blade through the back of his thick neck with such force that the razor-sharp point emerged from his throat in a violent spray of dark blood.
He made a wet, gurgling sound, his body going rigid, and collapsed heavily onto Chloe.
The Romvesian's dark eyes went wide with understanding and fear. He released Chloe's wrists and scrambled backward like a startled insect, reaching desperately for a crude knife at his belt.
"Aljani," he hissed, rising into a defensive crouch, his voice carrying a mixture of recognition and dread. "This doesn't concern you. The human's just a—"
I didn't let him finish. I yanked my blade free from the Ardurian's corpse with a sickening slurp and advanced, my vision narrowing to this single target.
The Romvesian was faster than his companion, more skilled.
He darted in with his blade, aiming for my ribs.
I deflected the strike almost contemptuously and he danced back, circling me warily.
He had real training—I could see it in his footwork, in the way he held his weapon with confidence born of experience.
It wouldn't save him. Nothing would.
He lunged again, feinting high then slashing low toward my thigh.
I caught his wrist mid-strike, my fingers closing around the joint, and twisted hard enough to hear the satisfying crack of bones snapping like dry twigs.
He screamed. I drove my blade up under his rib cage, angling it toward his heart.
His eyes bulged, blood bubbling at his lips.
I leaned in close, my horns blazing with heat, nearly touching his ridged face.
"It concerns me now," I growled.
I ripped the blade free and let him fall.
The whole thing had taken perhaps thirty seconds. Both males lay dead or dying in spreading pools of their own blood. My chest heaved, my horns blazing with heat I couldn't control. The rage sang in my veins like music, demanding more violence, more blood, more death.
Then I heard the sobbing.
Chloe.
I spun toward her, battle fury draining away as if someone had opened a floodgate, replaced by something else entirely.
Something tender and protective and infinitely more dangerous to my peace of mind.
She was curled on her side in the bloodstained grass, her arms wrapped around herself, weakly kicking to dislodge the Ardurian from atop her, shaking so violently I could see it from where I stood.
"Chloe." My voice came out rough, still edged with violence I couldn't quite suppress.
She didn't respond, just kept making those broken, terrified sounds that tore at something deep inside me.
I sheathed my blade with shaking hands and moved to her, pulling the Ardurian's heavy corpse away from where it had fallen partially across her. She immediately curled tighter into herself, her sobs intensifying until they were almost screams.
"Chloe, you're safe now. They're dead. They can't hurt you anymore."
"No, no, no, no..." She was rocking now, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, lost somewhere in her own private hell, reliving nightmares I couldn't see.
I crouched beside her, suddenly uncertain despite my size and strength. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to touch her, to hold her, to comfort her, but I remembered what she'd said about not liking to be touched. About Declan. About what had been done to her.
"Chloe, look at me. Please, little one."
She only screamed louder, her hands clawing at her own arms hard enough to leave angry red marks, as if she were trying to scrape away invisible stains.
I couldn't stand it. I couldn't watch her tear herself apart while I stood by doing nothing.
I reached for her with deliberate gentleness, and she exploded into panicked motion, striking at me with her small fists. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"
"Chloe, it's me. It's Nansar. You're safe."
But she wasn't hearing me. She was somewhere else, sometime else, trapped in memories of whatever horror Hewes had inflicted on her.
A memory surfaced unbidden—myself at perhaps eight years old, waking from a nightmare so vivid I could taste the ash and blood.
I'd been screaming, thrashing in my bedding, clawing at shadows that weren't there.
My father had come, and when he'd reached for me, I'd fought him with everything I had.
I'd hated him then—hated his expectations, his disappointments—and blamed him for my mother going away.
I'd screamed, striking at him just as Chloe was striking at me now. "I hate you! Don't touch me!"
But he hadn't let go. He'd pulled me against his broad chest and held me there while I raged and sobbed and fought. He'd said nothing, offered no words of comfort, just held me in an unbreakable grip until my terror had nowhere left to go but through me and out the other side.
And when the storm finally passed, when I'd collapsed against him exhausted and empty, I'd realized that the thing I'd fought hardest against was exactly what I'd needed most. Not freedom from his touch, but the safety of knowing someone was strong enough to hold me together when I was falling apart.
I wanted to be that someone for Chloe.
I pulled her into my arms with careful strength, wrapping her trembling form against my chest. She erupted—screaming, thrashing, her fists hammering against me with the desperate strength of a cornered animal.
“Let me go! Please, please let me go! I don’t like to be touched!"
Each word was a knife to the chest, but I held firm.
"I know," I murmured, keeping my grip steady but achingly gentle. "I know, little one. But you're safe now. I promise you're safe with me."
She kept fighting, kept sobbing, her words fragmenting into raw, incoherent sounds that tore through the clearing.
I absorbed it all—her terror, her rage, her anguish—letting her spend herself against the shelter of my body.
My horns blazed with heat, whether from the violence still singing in my veins or from the feel of her soft form pressed against me, I couldn't say.
The sensations bled together into something overwhelming, something that threatened to undo me completely.
Gradually, heartbreakingly slowly, her struggles weakened.
The screams dissolved into desperate sobs, then fractured whimpers.
Her fists unclenched, fingers clutching at my vest instead of striking, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.
She was still crying, but the wild hysteria had burned itself out, leaving behind something rawer, more broken, more achingly real.
"I've got you," I whispered against her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head with a tenderness I hadn't known lived inside me. "You're safe now."
She made a small, wounded sound that pierced straight through my chest. Then she pressed her face against my shoulder, burrowing into me as though trying to disappear from the world entirely.
Her whole body trembled with quiet sobs, but she was leaning into me now, not fighting. Seeking comfort instead of escape.
My horns pulsed hotter still, the sensation impossible to ignore or deny. I couldn't control it, couldn't stop the way my body responded to having her in my arms, to the powerful protectiveness that roared through my blood like wildfire.
Whether I liked it or not, whether I was ready or not, something fundamental had shifted between us in these few terrible, transformative moments.
And there was no going back.