Chapter 32 #2
The feel of her beneath him was distracting as hell.
The heat of her skin, the thud of her pulse, the challenge gleaming in her eyes all tangled with the scent of wild earth and leaves.
It made his grip falter. Made his heart thunder.
It made him want to lose himself in her, forget the damn game entirely and focus on that need.
To hell with winning. But he wasn’t about to let his determination slip that easily.
He wanted to win this round. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face as he cinched her wrists tighter.
Yet she never stopped trying to escape, that fire in her eyes daring him to keep up. He bit back a groan, feeling the entire world narrowing to nothing more than their struggle. Elora was a wild thing beneath him, and the thought of her giving in stirred some deeper, primal part of him.
And then, suddenly, she stopped struggling. With a smug little tilt of her head, she let herself sag against the dirt, like she’d just decided to give up. Like she was admitting he’d won. He squinted at her, suspicious.
“You’re not fooling me,” he warned, but his hold loosened just the slightest bit, a reflexive reaction to her abrupt stillness.
It was all she needed. Her arms slipped free, claws raking his shirt as she shoved him off with a surge of strength that startled even him. One second he was pinning her to the ground, the next he was flat on his back.
Rell gave a low whistle, straining for breath. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Elora stood up, breathless and triumphant. The gold in her eyes glinted like a predator's, and this time, her grin was all feral victory. “Guess I just needed the right motivation.”
She turned to run. Her foot came down hard as she pushed off, but Rell reached out. His fingers closed around her ankle, snatching her up and dragging her to a knee. A twist of momentum sent her sprawling to the ground with an indignant yelp and a muttered curse that made him laugh.
“Don’t think I’m giving up,” he warned, dragging her back towards him.
She kicked and squirmed, but he was relentless.
“Rell!” she snapped, but with a hint of laughter.
She twisted herself around, grappling to get the upper hand again, but this time Rell was ready.
He shifted his weight, pulling her under him until she was helplessly pinned against the forest floor once more.
“Say it,” he demanded, smirking down at her.
She glared up at him, defiance burning bright. “Never.”
“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met,” he said, as if that was an accomplishment in itself. He trapped her arms above her head and held them there.
“Let go,” she growled, fangs bared.
“Not until you say it.” He adjusted his grip, leaning in closer, his breath warm against her cheek.
Her nostrils flared, eyes snapping away from his face. Toward something off in the trees.
Rell frowned, catching his breath at the sudden shift in her focus. “What?”
“Someone’s coming.” She was dead serious now, all playfulness gone. But Rell wasn’t buying it.
“I’m not falling for your tricks—”
“Shh… Listen.”
He really didn’t want to focus on anything besides her.
She was so close beneath him, her breath warm against his cheek, every inch of her skin thrumming with adrenaline.
And her eyes. Damn, she was gorgeous when they glazed with that fierce, determined spark.
He was so caught up, all his attention narrowing down to her and only her.
But he listened. Stretched his senses out into the trees, past the moss and fallen leaves, past the pulse of her breath against his skin. He closed his eyes and listened.
And then he heard it.
Voices.
They were distant, hushed at first, just a whisper on the wind. But then they grew louder, cutting through the woods with unmistakable clarity. Those voices were more than just noise in the distance. They were a threat.
The game was over. Now it was real.
Shit. Rell released her, both of them scrambling to their feet and brushing off mud and leaves. She shot him a look, as if to say I told you so, but there was no time for gloating.
“This way.”
They sprinted together, cutting through the trees at a reckless speed. Her pace matched his perfectly; even without the chase’s adrenaline, she was fast as hell. Rell stole a glance over his shoulder, and that’s when he saw them. The Snatchers.
Rell's heart leaped with exhilaration, spurring him to quicken his pace. He swerved hard, pulling Elora with him, and they pushed deeper into the woods. The Snatchers were relentless, but he knew this terrain better than anyone.
He veered right, angling up a steep slope between ancient oaks. They reached a massive tree with wide, gnarled branches hanging low like welcoming arms.
“Up,” Rell said, boosting her toward the lower limbs.
Elora scrambled up the tree, and Rell followed. They climbed higher, leaves thick around them, until they were well hidden in the tangle of branches and shadows.
Below, the footsteps grew louder.
Rell’s grip tightened on a branch as the first figure came into view—massive and broad-shouldered, his head swiveling as he scanned the woods with a hunter’s eye.
Another man joined him, then a third, each one built like a damn bear.
They moved with purpose, spreading out beneath the trees in search of their prey.
Bastards really were like roaches.
Rell dropped his gaze to Elora, her eyes wide and focused as she watched the Snatchers trample through the underbrush. She’d gone tense beside him.
Rell slid his dagger from its sheath with a quiet, metallic whisper. It felt good in his hand, familiar, eager. Below them, the Snatchers moved with slow confidence, like they’d already won. Like they thought they'd caught something weak.
He grinned.
Idiots.
Beside him, Elora selected a vial from her belt, with a swirling silver mist trapped inside. Fog.
She looked at him, waiting for his signal. He gave a sharp nod.
She opened it and poured it over their enemies below.
Instantly, the forest floor erupted in thick, roiling mist, a swirling cloud that swallowed the Snatchers whole. Their grunts of surprise were music to Rell’s ears.
3… 2…
He jumped.
His boots hit the first Snatcher, driving the man to the ground with a wheeze of stolen air. Before the bastard could scream, Rell jammed his dagger into the man’s neck.
The second came at him blind, swinging wild through the fog. Rell ducked the first blow, stepped inside the second, and drove his elbow into the man’s throat. He went down hard, gasping, gagging.
Then a snarl ripped through the mist.
Elora.
She had landed on the back of the third Snatcher, her legs coiled around his waist, her arms hooking around his throat as her claws tore deep across his shoulder. He screamed and bucked, spinning in circles as she held on, teeth bared, feral and focused.
Another Snatcher stumbled into view from the fog, and Rell met him with a quick strike to the knee. As the man fell, Rell twisted and drove his dagger into the back of his skull.
The fog clung low, muffling the grunts and cries, turning the fight into something ghostly and surreal.
One of the men tried to stand again—Rell stabbed him square in the gut.
A body slammed into the ground nearby.
She’d brought the big one down, and now she was crouched over him, her fangs bared, claws pressed to his throat. Her breath was ragged, eyes wild. She looked like something out of a nightmare, and Rell couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his lips.
She was terrifying.
She was magnificent.
And every single one of these bastards had picked the wrong fucking girl.
The man beneath her whimpered, blood running down his temple, mixing with the dirt. Elora’s claws hovered just over his throat, her muscles tight with the promise of one final strike.
Rell watched her from a few feet away—eyes locked on the rise and fall of her shoulders, the tension in her crouch, the way her claws flexed like a predator testing its grip.
Gods, she was beautiful like this—terrifying and wild, a streak of blood along her jaw, her golden-ringed eyes gleaming in the mist.
But she’d been shifted too long. He could see it—the way her breath came faster than it should, the slight twitch in her jaw, her lips curling in a snarl that had no words behind it. Her instincts had taken the reins. And if he didn’t stop her now, she’d cross a line she couldn’t uncross.
As much as some part of him wanted to see her rip these bastards apart, he couldn’t let her become that.
Rell moved behind her, quiet and careful.
“Elora,” he said lowly. No response. Her claws pressed in harder, the man beneath her sobbing.
Rell lunged forward and grabbed her under the arms, hauling her up and off the Snatcher in one fluid motion.
She shrieked—feral, enraged—and twisted, claws slashing wildly. One caught the edge of his shoulder, slicing fabric.
“Elora!” he barked, pinning her arms against his chest. “It’s me.”
She froze.
Chest heaving. Claws trembling. Her golden eyes locked on his, unblinking. Slowly, her breath steadied, and recognition bloomed behind the haze of rage.
“He’s mine,” she hissed, voice still low and primal. “He was mine.”
“Maybe later,” Rell said, setting her down and turning toward the Snatcher, who was now trying to crawl away. “Right now, he’s going to answer some questions.”
The man struggled, rolling onto his back, every breath a frantic, wet gasp. Blood ran down his temple, streaking his filthy face, but Rell didn’t give the bastard an inch. He crouched beside him, dagger resting on the man’s cheekbone.
“Talk. Are there more of you?”
The man didn’t need to be told twice. He nodded frantically. “Y…yes. Half a dozen, maybe more. Camped south, near the ridge.”
“And why are you here?” Rell pressed, the blade nudging closer.
The Snatcher paused.
Wrong fucking move.
Rell pressed the dagger in, just hard enough to bead blood from the skin. “I’m not patient. Say something useful.”
“They—they said to grab girls,” the man blurted, tripping over his own breath in his scramble to speak. “Any young ones we found in the woods. Said Kilfaire’s about to be full of Empire buyers. That the top clients were coming. Paying high for something special.”
Rell’s blood ran cold and then boiled. The Empire. Those bastards. He could feel the rage building like a storm, dark and violent, pounding through his veins.
He couldn't—wouldn’t—let them get away with it.
With a wordless snarl, he grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him forward, bending him like a rag-doll to his will. The rage unfolded within him as he smashed the bastard's skull against a nearby rock.
The crack echoed through the trees.
Silence followed.
Rell stood slowly, breathing hard, blood dripping from his hand. He didn’t look at her.
He crouched beside the nearest body, and rifled through the man’s belt pouches, pulling a few alchemy vials—standard enhancement blends, not anything special.
One had a red wax seal. Pain duller. He pocketed it.
Another had a coil of wire and a tiny pulse shard—useful for quick binds. That, too, went into his pack.
“Elora,” he called softly as he straightened.
She hadn’t moved.
Still crouched where he’d left her, knees tucked under her, arms limp at her sides. Her golden-ringed eyes were locked on the blood-slicked moss, unblinking. Her breathing had slowed, but not like she was calm—more like she was somewhere far away.
“Elora,” he said again, stepping toward her.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch.
He reached out gently, fingers brushing her elbow, trying to coax her to stand.
She jerked away, not violently, just enough to make her boundary clear. Her eyes didn’t meet his, but she stood slowly on her own, moving like her limbs were too heavy.
“Is it your shift?” he asked quietly, watching the slight tremble in her hands. “You’ve been in it too long. You should shift back.”
Her head gave the smallest shake. No.
And then she turned. Not a word. Just the whisper of footsteps as she started walking toward camp—slow and unsteady, like she wasn’t sure where her body ended and the blood on the ground began.
Rell didn’t press. He just followed, a few steps behind, watching her shoulders, her fists, the twitch in her jaw. He didn’t say a word.