Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Khorrek stared at the small human female—at Thea—in frustration. No part of him wanted to be here, but High King Lasseran had sent him on a mission.
Retrieve the female. Bring her to me unharmed. This is your chance to prove your loyalty, Khorrek.
The words had been delivered with Lasseran’s characteristic silk-smooth voice, the one that promised everything and guaranteed nothing.
The High King had been… different lately.
More volatile. The winter months had stretched long behind the dark walls of the Obsidian Keep, and with each passing week, Lasseran’s mood had darkened like a wound turning septic.
Khorrek wasn’t stupid. He knew when he was being tested.
Even though Lasseran couldn’t possibly know that his loyalty had faltered, he suspected—and that suspicion made him even more dangerous than normal.
The scar across his face itched—it always did when his thoughts turned dangerous. He’d earned that scar in the High King’s service, along with a dozen others that mapped his body like a history written in pain. Each one a reminder of what he owed. Each one a chain.
You owe him nothing, whispered the part of his mind he tried not to listen to. He made you into this.
He shoved the thought down where it belonged, locked away with all the other doubts that had been accumulating like rot, as he focused on the female. She was… not what he expected.
Small. Soft. Fragile.
And the moment their eyes had met, his world tilted. His Beast had surged to the surface with a force that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with recognition.
Mine.
The word slammed through him with the force of a warhammer, bypassing every rational thought, every carefully constructed wall he’d built between himself and his nature.
His Beast knew her. Claimed her. Wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and carry her somewhere safe where nothing and no one could ever touch her.
No.
He crushed the impulse with brutal efficiency. She was the High King’s prize, not his. This female belonged to Lasseran, just like everything else in his life belonged to Lasseran. The fact that his Beast was reacting like she was his mate meant nothing. Less than nothing.
It was a trick. Had to be. Some residual magic from the stone circle playing havoc with his senses.
He forced himself to look at her analytically.
Her skin was pale—too pale, like she’d never seen proper sunlight.
Fiery hair, tangled and wild, fell past her shoulders.
Eyes the color of winter frost. Delicate bones that looked like they’d snap if he gripped her too hard. Small breasts that—
Stop.
He jerked his gaze back to her face, frustration burning hot in his chest. This was exactly the kind of distraction he couldn’t afford. Not now, not with the High King’s suspicions weighing him down.
Those strange glass things on her face magnified eyes that were far too intelligent, far too assessing. She should have been terrified. She should have been screaming and begging, cowering away from the monster looming over her.
Instead, she said something in a language he didn’t recognize, her tone dry and sardonic.
The shock of it nearly made him laugh. Nearly.
She pushed herself to her feet, wobbling slightly but refusing to cower.
Brave little thing.
The thought came unbidden and unwanted. He didn’t want to admire her or feel anything toward her except professional detachment.
His Beast disagreed. Violently.
The fact that she didn’t understand his language made things infinitely more complicated. How was he supposed to make her obey if she couldn’t understand basic commands? How was he supposed to keep her safe if she couldn’t understand warnings?
Why do you care about keeping her safe? She’s cargo. A package for the High King.
Except his Beast didn’t see cargo. It saw mate, and no amount of logic or self-discipline seemed capable of changing that fundamental, bone-deep recognition.
She hadn’t given up on the attempt to communicate, pointing at herself. “Thea.”
The name was soft. Foreign. Beautiful.
He repeated it, the sound awkward in his mouth, then gave into impulse and provided her with his own name. “Khorrek.”
She mangled his name when she tried to repeat it but it was close enough that his Beast purred with satisfaction. It wanted his name on her lips. Wanted her breathless and panting and whispering it against his skin.
Stop.
The internal command was issued with the same discipline that had been beaten into him since childhood. He had to focus on the mission, on the memory of Lasseran’s cold eyes, and on the consequences of failure.
But she was still naked, still vulnerable, and without making a conscious decision, he stripped off his own tunic, the cool air a welcome shock against his heated skin, and dropped it over her.
Her head popped up through the neck hole, her hair sticking up in wild tangles, those glass things sitting crooked on her nose. She looked ridiculous. Adorable. His scent wrapped around her, marking her in a way that made his pulse pound and his blood heat.
It was a mistake, a stupid, instinct-driven mistake that he would pay for later.
But the satisfaction—the sheer, primal satisfaction—of seeing her covered in his scent and his clothing, was almost worth the price.
The tunic fell to mid-thigh, covering everything that needed covering. Good enough. It would have to be.
She stared up at him, those winter-sky eyes wide with something that might have been gratitude or might have been shock. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“Thank you.”
The words were incomprehensible, but the meaning was clear enough. She understood the gesture. Understood that he’d just given her the only protection he could offer.
It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough against what waited for her in the south. A monster, he thought before he quickly buried the disloyal thought. His mission was to get her to Lasseran. Nothing more.
He pointed to her and then to the south before making a walking gesture with his fingers. He could tell from her expression that she understood what he meant, but he wasn’t entirely surprised when she didn’t move. Instead she began babbling in that incomprehensible language.
“You can’t stay here,” he told her. “You are not equipped to survive out here.”
Why am I trying to reason with her?
She still didn’t move, continuing to argue with him.
“You don’t have a choice,” he said, his voice hard as he repeated the gestures. That was better.
She stared up at him with those clear grey eyes, then very deliberately shook her head.
“No.”
His hand dropped to his sword, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to threaten her with it. Instead, he moved closer. She squeaked and took a step back but one of the giant stones was behind her and there was nowhere for her to go.
“You leave me no choice,” he told her, ignoring a faint pang of regret, then picked her up and dropped her over his shoulder.
She weighed even less than he’d anticipated, but she fought him with enough squirming outrage that carrying her required actual concentration. Her fists hammered against his back in a rhythm that would leave bruises on anyone less thick-skinned.
“Put me down! This is—this is assault! Kidnapping! I did not consent to—”
The words meant nothing, but the tone was clear enough. She didn’t want to come with him.
It doesn’t matter, he told himself. Lasseran’s orders had been explicit: retrieve the female from the stone circle, keep her alive and unharmed, and bring her to Kel’Vara. The High King hadn’t said anything about making her happy about it.
His stride lengthened. The sooner they reached camp, the sooner he could put her down and stop feeling the heat of her skin against his bare shoulder, even through the tunic. Stop noticing how soft her thighs were beneath his hand. How small she was.
How his Beast stirred every time she moved.
Ignore it.
He’d spent thirty-five years learning to ignore his Beast’s impulses. This was no different.
Her squirming finally stilled and her hands, which had been beating against his back rested quietly against his skin.
He adjusted his grip, shifting her slightly.
Not for her comfort, he told himself, even as he gently squeezed her thigh.
She gasped and her warm breath ghosted across his skin, sending a jolt of awareness straight through him.
“I will memorize your face for the trial,” she grumbled, her voice muffled against his back. “I will describe you in excruciating detail. ‘Your Honor, the defendant was approximately seven feet tall, with the complexion of an unripe avocado and the interpersonal skills of a brick.’”
He couldn’t understand the words, but he was quite sure she was trying to annoy him into putting her down. He was more likely to haul her around in front of him and silence her in a much more effective way.
The thought both horrified and pleased him, and he tightened his grip on her thigh, stilling her completely.
“Stop talking,” he growled. She stiffened, but she obeyed.
The air grew colder as they moved into the open plains.
The wind whipped around them, flattening the grass and catching the hem of his tunic, threatening to expose more of her delicate body to the cool air.
He could feel the goosebumps rising on her skin, a shiver that ran through her entire body and into his.
Without breaking stride, he shifted her weight so he could wrap his arm more securely around her legs, tucking the fabric of the tunic around her as best he could and using his other arm to blanket the lower part of her legs.
It was a small gesture, but he felt the tension drain from her body almost immediately.
She was quiet for a long time after that, her head resting against his back as he walked. The rhythmic brush of the grasses against his legs, the constant susurrus of the wind, the distant cry of some unseen bird—it was a familiar melody, the soundtrack of his life on the move.
But the weight of her on his shoulder was new. The scent of her—a strange, clean smell that reminded him of rain and soap—was a constant distraction.
Focus on the mission, he told himself. It was what Lasseran would demand, but his Beast was having none of it.
Mate. Ours. Protect.
“She’s not ours,” he muttered under his breath, but then he descended a small hill and his camp materialized on the horizon—four small tents arranged around a cold fire pit, exactly as he’d left it. The human soldiers would be there.
His jaw tightened.
He frequently worked with humans—the Dusk Guards who patrolled the streets of Kel’Vara and Lasseran’s army were both composed of humans.
But Lasseran also kept a rotating stable of mercenaries and soldiers willing to do the High King’s dirty work for enough coin.
Most of them were unremarkable—smart enough to follow orders and too greedy or desperate to question what those orders meant.
These three were different.
Worse.
Brennik, the leader, wore his cruelty like armor. The scar bisecting his eyebrow was a trophy from a tavern brawl where he’d beaten a man to death over an insult. He’d bragged about it around the fire two nights ago, his voice thick with satisfaction.
The other two—Dann and Harrick—were younger, meaner, the kind of men who’d learned violence as children and never grown beyond it.
They feared him. They feared his strength, his skills, and his direct connection to the High King, but fear didn’t breed respect, only a resentment that simmered beneath every interaction like pus beneath a scab.
I should have left them at Kel’Vara.
But Lasseran had insisted. “The female will be frightened. She’ll respond better to her own kind,” the High King had said, his pale eyes cold and calculating.
He’d doubted it then and he doubted it even more now when they looked up at his approach. Brennik’s scarred face split into a grin that made Khorrek’s hand itch for his axe.
“Well, well.” Brennik’s voice carried across the distance, thick with amusement. “The Beast warrior returns with his prize.”
Dann laughed. “Doesn’t look too happy about it. Feisty little thing, isn’t she?”
Harrick said something crude about breaking spirits and warming beds that made Khorrek’s vision tint red at the edges.
He crossed into camp and set her carefully on her feet. She stumbled and grabbed his arm to steady herself, then jerked away like his skin had burned her.
Brennik’s grin widened and Khorrek automatically moved in front of her, shifting his weight so his body blocked the soldier’s view of her.
“The High King has ordered that she remain unharmed,” he said roughly, the words grinding against each other like stones in a rockslide.
“Of course, of course.” Brennik raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of touching the merchandise.”
Merchandise.
The word sat wrong in his gut. He’d escorted prisoners before, delivering captives to Lasseran’s dungeons to be subjected to the High King’s specific brand of cruelty.
This felt different.
Thea was still standing half behind him, her breathing quick and shallow. Her hand went to those strange glass circles perched on her nose and adjusted them with trembling fingers.
She looked at the soldiers and then looked up at him before taking a tiny step closer. Good. She was smart enough to recognize a threat when she saw one.
“Come.” He gestured towards his tent, but she didn’t move. She just stood there, wrapped in his tunic, staring up at him with those sharp grey eyes that seemed to see too much.
He tried again, pointing more emphatically. Go to the tent. Get away from the soldiers whose thoughts were written plainly across their leering faces. Instead she shook her head and said something in her incomprehensible language.
He felt the soldiers watching. waiting to see what he’d do.
Fine.
He grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her back over his shoulder again.
“Hey!”
The protest squeaked out of her as her fists pounded his back again, but with less conviction this time. More resignation than rage.
He carried her to his tent, ducked inside, and set her down on the pile of furs that served as his bedroll. She landed with an undignified thump, her eyes wide behind the glass circles.
He pointed at the furs, then pointed at her. “Stay.”
He was sure she understood, even though she crossed her arms and glared at him before starting one of her incomprehensible lectures.
He suppressed the urge to growl. Barely. Instead, he turned and left the tent before he did something stupid like try to continue an argument with someone who didn’t speak his language—or kiss her into silence.