Chapter 44
Gustav
“Iam unimpressed. You talk like wolves, but you behave like street dogs,” I say loudly.
A few men growl. One barks. Others sneer. One murmurs what someone already told them:
“He’s the one.”
I tilt my face up toward the gray sky.
“Mother. Did you hear that earlier? They called me the Mad King.” I pause as she replies in that fucking voice that makes my skin crawl.
I taught you to be a gentleman. You’re behaving like your father. I’m disappointed in you.
“No, mother! I told you I am not like him.” My voice sharpens. “No. I said no!” I slap my own face, trying to hush her goddamn mouth.
The wolfmen shift uneasily. Nikolai watches like I am a puzzle.
I snap to my sense, lick my lips, stand straighter.
My fingers close around the hatchet tucked into the back waistband of my pants. I slide it free and roll the handle in my palm.
“Forgive me,” I say, and bow slightly. “It’s rude to argue with my mother when I have guests. Pour yourself some wine. Introductions are over. We’re friends now. But I prefer the name Mad Butcher. Would you like to see why?”
Before he can answer, a raven drops out of nowhere and lands beside my boot. Its black eyes glitter, head tilted as if listening.
I bark at it. “Not now, Mother. I am busy! Can’t you see I have guests?”
Some of the men laugh.
Nikolai does not. He nods at one of his archers. “Show him what we do with mothers here.”
The archer raises his bow and shoots the raven. The arrow punches through the bird and pins it to the snow.
The sound that comes out of me is not human.
“You killed her!” I roar, my eyes wide. I pull on my hair till it sticks up.
Then, I lunge. The hatchet sings through the air and bites into the scalp of the archer. Hair and skin peel away from his skull in one horrific sweep. He drops screaming, clutching the exposed bone. I stomp the back of his head until it breaks, the sound a wet crack under my boot.
Some men cheer, more loyal to violence than their kind.
I feel better.
I hold the scalp up high, wrist limp, hair crazy, and stare at their leader, head cocked almost to my shoulder, no smile. Blood runs down my arm, warm against the cold air.
Then I let it drop.
I twirl the hatchet again. “Now, I thought we were friends. I want to play a game,” I say. “If I win, we walk. If I lose... well, that will not happen.”
The men snicker, but it is thinner now. Uneasy.
Nikolai’s blue eyes gleam behind the metal slits. He drags his dirty knuckles slowly down Keira’s cheek, then across her collarbone.
“Okay, if you win, you leave,” he says. “If you lose, I keep everything you brought here. Women. Men. Guns. You. All of it.”
I hear Petyr swearing under his breath behind me. I hear Peighton’s soft inhale. She knows what it means when men gamble this way. She also knows there is no choice.
Nikolai pulls his own hatchet. The circle widens.
We move.
The first clash of metal jars all the way up my arm. We circle in the snow, boots crunching, muscles tense. His style is wild but strong. I take a slash across my forearm. Blood sticks to the fresh cut and freezes.
The voices start to creep back in, hissing.
He is stronger. You are slowing. You will lose her. You will always lose her.
I snarl and drive into him harder. We lose our hatchets and hit the ground, rolling, grappling, trading blows. We slam into the ring’s edge and crash into Peighton’s legs. She stumbles.
I see her fall backward.
Slow motion.
Horrific.
Because her head hits a stone with a sickening crack.
Something tears inside me.
A shadow moves across the sky. Then another. Then forty. Ravens pour out of the trees in a black storm, swirling low. Talons rake exposed skin. Men shout and shield their faces.
The leader looks up.
I look down.
My gun lies in the snow where it was knocked free earlier.
Peighton sees it too.
She is barely conscious, but she kicks it just enough to make it to me. The movement costs her. Her eyes roll back and she collapses.
I snatch the gun as it slides past my fingers, flip onto my back, and fire into Nikolai’s chest.
The bullet rips straight through.
He freezes, hatchet raised, then folds to the ground in silence.
Petyr’s gun fires behind me, too. Without their boss and with the ravens screaming, the wolfmen break completely. They scatter into the trees, vanishing as quickly as they came.
I do not watch them go.
I crawl to Peighton.
Blood mats her hair at the back of her head. Snow sticks to her lashes. Her lips are parted slightly, breath shallow and uneven.
“Peighton,” I say. My voice cracks. “Listen to me. Open your eyes.”
Nothing.
I cup her face between my hands. They are shaking now. I press my forehead to hers, willing her to move. To speak. To curse at me. To call me too crazy for her. Anything.
She doesn’t flinch. Her breaths grow shallow.
The ravens spiral once more overhead, then peel away, leaving only the sound of my ragged breathing and the distant moan of wind.
“I promised you were safe,” I whisper into her hair. “I told you nobody would hurt you. You’re not hurt. Wake up. Wake up.”
I look at the blood on my fingers, at the bruise already forming along her delicate hairline, and the truth settles like a weight in my chest.
Father murmurs:
She’s dead.
I gather her against my chest, hold her as close as I can, rocking, staring into the darkening forest.
“Wake up,” I whisper to my little doll. “Wake up.”
“Gustav,” says Petyr who is holding his side, his hand bloody. “We need to go. Now.”