by Jill Monroe
She quickly sidestepped his advance, fluffing the shirt away from her chest. “I will do the mending. I did mention that I could sew.”
YEARS AGO, ROLFE HAD made a vow to the King of Elden. To protect the king’s family with his own life if needed. And he would have faced any battle, raised any sword against any who threatened the Royal House, but this—
This wasn’t battle, and he didn’t face his demise. It was worse than any death. Any pain. Any suffering.
It was a living death. Unremitting agony. A soulless life. Others had gone mad from the threat of it. Rolfe’s own fright had kept him clinging to the shadows of the castle. As a guard he knew the best ways to go unnoticed, slipping around Elden, squirreling away food like a rodent. He’d become someone he didn’t recognize. A man who valued going undetected over honor. But what were honor and principles here? That had all died with the king and queen.
Maybe the depraved death the Blood Sorcerer offered would be simpler than this pitiful existence. It was easy enough to be caught. Catching the attention of one of the blood minions, maybe steal something in plain sight. He knew some of what happened to those who refused to give their allegiance to the Blood Sorcerer. Drained of blood, used as target practice and blood sport, or fed upon by something so hideous the screams started before the feeding even began. But the screams eventually ended.
That’s what Rolfe wanted. Needed. What came after the silence.
He’d failed. The king and queen were dead. The three princes vanished, even the sweet princess he’d tried to save now all gone. His heart constricted at the pain. His defeat.
What was his life worth now to Elden? Better to face the end now than to go on living with the failure. He heard voices in the hall.
THE BLOOD SORCERER SAT on the King of Elden’s throne. The former king. The body had been removed, but the stains from his blood still covered the floor. One of the castle servants tried to clean up the carnage left by her dying ruler’s body, but the sorcerer quickly put a stop to that. He thrilled at walking through the spilled blood of Aelfric. The dead king’s pain, the anguished cries, energized the great hall. The sorcerer still felt the traces of Aelfric’s fear for his children’s safety, and his growing need for vengeance, even as his life’s blood drained away, seeping onto the cold stone floor for the sorcerer now to plod through.
A wish for vengeance that would be denied. Even now the Blood Sorcerer’s minions were verifying the deaths of the heirs of Elden.
Leyek entered the great hall and bowed low to him. The sorcerer demanded the same displays one would give royalty. He was royalty. Better than any crowned monarch born of birth. The sorcerer had earned his right to walk exalted among the people. Killed until he reigned above all others. Drained the blood of many to sit on this gilt-and-jeweled throne.
“One of the scouts has returned, my lord,” Leyek informed him.
He unfurled his long index finger. “Only one?”
His minion nodded. “Yes. Your creature is weak. He must be fed before his questioning.”
The Blood Sorcerer stood, anger simmering around him. A visible mist. “Then see it done. There are plenty of Elden’s citizenry in the storehouses.”
“Already done, my lord.”
The mist began to dissipate. Leyek had earned his second in command years ago, and was bloodthirsty enough to not let his position weaken. “Good. Which heir?”
“The scout was too weak, but this pairing was after Dayn. Or the sister, I think.”
The Blood Sorcerer began to fondle the dark red rubies embedded in his chair. “Let’s hope it’s the girl, and that she’s still alive. I relish the draining.” He closed his eyes and shuddered in anticipated pleasure.
Agonized cries echoed outside. “Good. The feeding has begun. Let me know when he’s finished off with his stock. I want to be one with my pet in the questioning.”
Leyek nodded. “Very good, my lord.”
The Blood Sorcerer gave a disinterested wave of his hand. “Make sure the draining is slow and extreme. My pet deserves a treat.”
SOMETHING KINDLED WITHIN Rolfe. Some spark…some return to life. The desire to survive.
One of the heirs still lived.
Lived only to be hunted and slaughtered. But Rolfe might be able to prevent their capture. A small, sliver of a chance, yet he’d take it. He’d make himself invaluable. Learn all he could of the blood scouts, and steer them away from the heir they hunted.
OSBORN WAS SILENT BESIDE her as they traced their path back into town to buy supplies. Silent but certainly not forgotten. Breena had tried, forcing herself to enjoy the freedoms that awaited her. She’d focus on only the good experiences to be had in town, the booths, the food, the newness of it all. She’d forget about the men who dragged her in the alley. Their deaths. She had to put those thoughts aside, and block every painful experience she’d had since Rolfe shook her awake. It all seemed a different lifetime ago. Happened to a different person. Good. It was the only way she could face what was next to save her family and her people.
More villagers filled the streets and small groups clustered in front of the more popular booths. A surge of excitement quickened her steps, and soon she and Osborn were among the crowd. Even without the berserker she knew lurked below Osborn’s very prickly surface, he was one intimidating man. Tall and broad, there was no hiding the raw strength of him. The shopkeepers, eager for a sale, took a step backward as he approached, and she’d seen several people cross to the other side of the narrow street to avoid accidentally getting in his way. If he were one of her brothers, she’d tell him to remove that ever-present scowl on his face, he was scaring the townspeople. Or maybe it was those dark brown eyes of his that made those around his wary. He was constantly scanning the crowd, assessing the level of threat.
She may have grown up a sheltered princess, but Breena knew that kind of alert wasn’t instinctual. Her brothers were fighters after all. No, a man with that kind of guardedness and suspicion was like that because he’d brought danger down upon himself. His own doing.
The tales she’d read as a child always hinted at the softer side of the beast, but Breena suspected whatever soft side Osborn once had, he’d stomped to the ground and then did a little dance on its remains.
A smile tugged at her mouth, and Breena laughed at the foolish image she’d conjured in her head.
Osborn glanced at her sharply, and she laughed out loud. She’d blame her silly behavior on lack of sleep and the bone-deep weariness of her aching body that made her laugh with such little provocation. But it felt good to laugh. He stopped at a booth and she continued on, knowing his eyes would not stray from her for long.
“Do you need help?” the lady asked her quietly, darting a quick glance in Osborn’s direction. His attention was on the rope he was inspecting, but it would only be a distraction for a moment or two. His vigilant gaze would be upon them both soon. “Help?”
“To get away,” she explained, her voice a quiet hiss.
Tears filled her eyes, as Breena realized what the woman before her was asking. The shopkeeper was trying to help her, escape from the terrifying man who always kept her in sight. She quickly blinked the tears back. Crying would only alarm the woman further, and draw Osborn’s watchful eye. Breena managed to shake her head, overwhelmed by the kindness of this stranger. She’d faced a warrior and battled a creature of blood magic, but it was this one woman’s compassion that nearly reduced her to a shaking mess.
The woman’s gaze narrowed. “There are rumors of that one. He’s a killer. Ruthless.”
That’s exactly what Breena was hoping for.
“We’ve struck a bargain,” she told the woman who, despite her obvious fear of the man, would help Breena if she could.
Osborn had finished his transaction, and had turned his attention back to her. That fierce battle face of his firmly settled.
The woman beside her sucked in a fearful breath. “You’re sure?”
Her magic led her to this man. Bree
na was as sure as she could be.
“I’m here every other day. I’ve helped other women in the past. Just send me word, and I’ll do my best to get you free of him.”
Breena shook her head again. The rough fabric of the shirt rubbed at her nipples.
“Actually, there are a few things I need.”
IF BERNT AND TORBEN THOUGHT it was strange to see Breena at their brother’s side at the rendezvous point, they didn’t show it. They walked together as a group, silent, as Osborn bought additional supplies from the vendor. No one asked what she carried in her package, and she didn’t volunteer the information. These men didn’t need to know the intimacies of her underthings.
She caught snippets of agitated chatter from time to time.
“Did you hear? They found Unwin and Dudley dead. In one of the alleyways.”
“Thieves, the both of them. Surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”
No one seemed to mourn the loss. A few days ago, the thought of someone dying, seeing someone killed before her eyes, would have been horrifying. Now she viewed the ruthlessness of others in a far different light, and the death of those who would murder without conscience did not bother her.
At another booth the vendors speculated on a suspect. “Who could have done it?”
“With so many strangers pouring into the village on market day, who’s to know?”
Both stall keepers quieted their speculation as she approached with Osborn and his brothers. She couldn’t help following her nose to the origin of the amazing scent, and the warrior had indulged her. The tradespeople eyed Osborn with wariness, but not suspicion. Relieved, she smiled at the baker who offered her a sample of the bread. “It smells delicious.”
Some time later when the sun was lowering in the sky, Osborn announced it was time to return to the cottage. As they walked up the hill, she couldn’t help stealing glances back at the village. So many things to see, and taste and smell. A few days ago she would have yearned for this exact experience.
It was almost dark when she spotted the roof of Osborn’s home. The boys quickly set to work, preparing the fire while another returned the pillow and blankets for her to use. Last night, she’d made a pallet on the floor, and apparently that was to be the arrangement again tonight. Probably another one of Osborn’s attempts to make her change her mind. It didn’t matter, the wooden floor of the cabin wasn’t soft, but she slept in front of the warmth of a fire, and her stomach was full.
Osborn walked over to her carrying a large woven sack, usually used to carry potatoes. He dumped it in front of her, and out spilled a pile of socks, shirts and pants. The mending.
“All this?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
Osborn raised an eyebrow. “There is a different deal we could make.” His gaze lowered to her breasts, and then moved still lower. To between her legs.
Breena’s mouth went dry. Never had a man looked at her so carnally. Acknowledged her secret woman’s place with such possession. Her hands began to tremble so she sank them into the bag.
“I love to sew. Mending even more. All I need is a needle.”
Osborn’s lips twisted as if he were attempting to hide a smile. “In the bottom of the sack. Good night.”
She rummaged among the cloth until she found a hard wooden case. Breena tugged it out and opened it to find several silver needles and a small pair of sheers. She reached for a woolen sock, sporting a rip in the heel. “And, Breena?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to wear those in the morning.”
He turned and left, closing the door firmly behind him. The man apparently didn’t believe she could sew. She’d show him; her stitches were always tiny and neat. Osborn the warrior may be something amazing when he fought, but he still only had two feet, and he needed only two socks for the morning. Not the dozens stuffed into the sack.
She was also growing tired of his habit of calling her name after the conversation was certainly over—just to give her another order.
Survive. Yes, that’s what she was doing.
Breena closed her eyes and breathed in the woodsy scent that hung in cabin. The smoke from the fire. Once again she’d live through another night. And beginning tomorrow she’d start the second command that echoed in her mind. To avenge.
But first…she picked up a sock and threaded her needle.
A HAND TO HER SHOULDER WOKE her up the next morning.
“Wake up.”
She squeezed her eyelids tight and rolled away from the voice, sinking deeper into her pillow.
But the voice was insistent. “Time to train.”
Breena slowly opened her eyes to see Osborn’s familiar strong jaw and firm lips. Kissable. But then her thoughts were always a bit fanciful in that place between sleep and wakefulness. His hair was damp, and his cheek smooth. She reached up to slide a finger across his face.
He jerked back from her touch. Mister Prickly today.
Osborn stood, once again dressed in black, his scabbard slung low on his hip. “There’s something for you to eat on the table. I’ll be waiting for you outside so you can dress. Bernt and Torben are gathering wood and water. Five minutes.”
A hunk of cheese and dried berries waited for her, and she devoured them with pleasure. She’d discovered a smaller pair of drawstring pants in the mending bag last night and, after some trimming with the shears, managed to craft something that didn’t drag on the ground. She finger combed her hair, and nearly laughed at the idea of the maids who’d once chosen gowns of silk and fashioned her hair in elaborate styles and adorned her with ribbons and gems.
Who’d recognize her now?
And that was a good thing. She suspected she’d used up most of her allotted time. The impatient look on his face told her Osborn was just about to charge into the cottage and get her. “This way,” he said, and guided her to a clearing not too far from the cabin. Breena hadn’t discovered this place when she was wandering around his home on that first day. Targets and woven sacks filled with straw littered the area, and Breena realized this must be where Osborn kept up with his training.
Osborn tossed her a stick.
“I thought you were going to teach me how to use a sword,” she said, eyeing the sword at his hip. Her gaze slipped lower until she forced it back where it belonged.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Have you ever held a sword?”
Breena shook her head. As if her mother ever would have allowed it. Her brothers wouldn’t have dared to let her carry a weapon. Even the adored sons would have been afraid of the queen’s ire over that infraction. “No. Never.”
“Then that’s why you’re using a stick. Now, you’ve seen swordplay?”
She was quick to nod. “My father loved nothing more than to host a tournament. The knights on horseback brandishing their swords with a flourish were a thing to behold.”
“It’s the flourishing knights who are the first to die.”
Breena bit her lip to keep from smiling. Could that have been jealousy? She stood straight instead. “Okay, definitely nothing fancy.”
“Hold your sword like you’re about to face me in battle.”
She lifted her stick. Osborn moved to stand behind her, his big chest warming her back he was so close. The chestnut smell of the soap he must use to wash his hair made her want to breathe in deeply.
He lifted his arm, framing her body with his. “Bend your elbows,” he told her, “and bring your arms in close to your sides. The weight of your blade will only increase, and you want your sword to do the work, not your arms.”
The new stance did feel more comfortable.
Osborn positioned her arms out from her chest. “See how you’ve left this entire area open?” he asked, trailing his fingers along her collarbone, and down between her breasts.
Breena could only nod. Her skin turned goose bumpy.
“This is your most vulnerable area. You must always protect it.”
She was definitely f
eeling vulnerable. And she was really enjoying her lessons. That hand down between her breasts would be worth a pile of sock mending.
Osborn dropped his arms, but not before brushing the sides of her breasts, her waist and her hips. Breena couldn’t help but tremble. “Now turn and face me. Always keep in mind that the first blow is the most important.”
“My first blow?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he told her with a shrug. “Either you strike and hit or he strikes and misses—that’s what determines who walks away. If you strike first, make sure you connect. Otherwise, you are off balance and an easy target for his strike. Which will kill you.”
Breena began to bristle at that assumption.
“You will be smaller than any man you fight. Not as strong. Those are the facts, Breena. I’m not saying you can’t defeat your opponent, but you have to be twice as good as they are. Twice as prepared. You have to find their weakness, and use it to your advantage. What do you think my weakness is?”
Breena ran her gaze along Osborn’s broad shoulders, powerful arms and muscled thighs. Heat suffused her cheeks as she imagined her hands following the same path as her eyes—over his firm mouth with the full bottom lip. Down the strength of his brawny chest roped with muscle. The flat tautness of his stomach. And below.
“What’s my weakness, Breena?” he asked, his voice less instructional but low and husky.
Their gazes clashed.
“I can’t see any.”
“Then you’re wrong. I’m tall, so that leaves my legs exposed. I’m big, so once I’m off balance…that’s a disaster. And I’m a man.”
Deliciously so.
“And all men are vulnerable in one spot. Do you know what that is?”
She shook her head.
“Between my legs.”
She knew what lay between his legs. Couldn’t miss the hard male flesh as he stood watching her dress two days ago at the lake. Stood guard, more like. Flashes of what she’d seen stole in her mind at the most inappropriate of times, and refused to be driven out.
“A knee or a good swift kick will bring most men down, and give you a chance to escape. And, Breena?”
