Breena lifted her arms and pointed at the snakelike beast attacking Osborn. “No!” she shouted at the evil thing, and a hot bolt tore from her fingertips. The creature shrieked as if burned. Osborn fell to the ground as the beast turned and aimed straight for her. Fear knifed through her. She almost turned and ran.
But she was done with running away.
Breena locked her knees, faced the evil coming toward her and lifted her hands again.
That thing has no power over you.
If she could prevent the monster from hurting Osborn, she could do more. The thing sped toward her. Another bolt flew into the creature’s side and it twisted with a shrill howl. She sent another and another, until sweat filmed her forehead and it grew hard to breathe. Then she sent one more.
With a final shriek, the creature broke apart in a burst of blood. Red gore fell to the churning water, as if the purity of the lake wanted to repel the carnage rather than absorb it. She expected the other creature in the sky to attack next. It circled twice above their heads, then slithered away into the horizon. Finally the water in the lake settled. The wind died down and the sky lightened.
Breena sunk to the ground. Her muscles shook as she struggled to breathe. Whatever energy she’d used to kill the creature sapped her of any strength. She looked around for Osborn. She spotted him still lying where the creature had dropped him. Beaten. Poisoned. Burned. And still he fought to help her get away.
Now he didn’t move.
She choked back a sob. Her stomach tightened, and a fluttery panic filled her chest. “Osborn!” she shouted as she crashed through the shallow pools of water and sand, where he lay facedown. “Please be alive. Please.” Breena didn’t think she could take another death. Certainly not that of her warrior.
With a strength she managed to scrounge up from somewhere, she rolled him over. She gasped when she saw his face crossed by scratches and deep wounds. She smoothed the blood away with her wet hands, fear making her fingers shake.
“Osborn.”
Nothing.
Breena leaned closer, getting her nose almost to his. “Osborn!” she yelled.
His eyelids snapped open. “If that’s your idea of healing skills, you’ve got a lot to learn.” He groaned.
Her shoulders sagged in relief, her damp hair falling and shrouding them from the sun.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” he asked, his breath fanning her cheek.
“I slowed you down.” And nearly got you killed.
“I wouldn’t have made it, anyway.”
A realist. She liked that. Sort of. It would certainly take some getting used to. Breena was used to life in the castle where she rarely saw the struggles of others. Was protected from it. Osborn would never lie to her. That’s what she needed.
“Those things were too fast.” His words were grim. His eyes narrowed and his expression turned stony again. Whatever fog he’d been in since she’d rolled him over was dissipating. Her angry warrior was back.
He pushed himself up.
“You shouldn’t be trying to sit yet. I think you need to rest.”
He only glared at her, and flexed his arms, then his legs, checking for injuries. He hissed in a breath. He’d obviously found one.
She reached for him. Breena had only meant to pat his shoulder, offering a touch of compassion. But her intended comforting brush of her palm turned into a near caress. She’d never been so close to a man before, especially not one who was naked and so, so fascinating. At least, not while she was awake. She still had the taste of him in her mouth.
Every tendon and sinew of his body was tight and defined. Powerful muscles roped his chest, and bunched at his arms. Scars—some old, some new—ran along his body. And he’d have new ones today. “I’m sorry,” she told him again, already leaning forward, her lips just inches away from his skin.
His fingers circled around her hand, drawing her touch away from his warm skin. “What have you done?”
The anger lacing his every word broke her from her daze.
“Done?” Breena began to shake her head. “I haven’t done anything.”
Yes, her angry warrior was definitely back, this time tinged with a streak of suspicion.
In one quick movement, his hands were at her hips. He rolled her over, her back pressing into the damp sandy bank. He straddled her, blocking any opportunity for her to get away.
“What have you brought here? To my home?” he bellowed at her, his finger digging painfully into her shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
He leaned in, their noses almost touching. “Those creatures…those things, that was magic. Blood magic.”
Her heart began to pound, and her throat grew dry. Blood magic.
The idea of it repelled her. Every part of her—every emotion, every thought, every memory—rejected it and was sickened by the words.
Blood magic could only work by taking of the blood of the unwilling. Forced. Drained until dead.
“You know of these?” she asked. Dreading his answer, hoping it was something he battled on a regular basis here in Ursa and not something she’d brought down on their heads. But a memory, a flash of recognition of the magic, nagged at her. Then the pain returned.
“In places, but not here. Never here.”
His confirmation made her shake. She’d brought the magic of death to this peaceful place. For a moment her thoughts lingered on the poor soul whose blood had created such a thing. How they’d experience excruciating pain, and then praying, even begging, for death. A death denied.
“Those things travel in pairs, so one can always lead more here. To my home.”
With his weight pinning her to the ground, Osborn moved his hands from her shoulders. She began to shake as his fingers traveled over her naked skin, traced the line of her collarbone until meeting at her neck.
“When I came here I made a vow to kill anything that threatened Ursa ever again. Endangered what was left of my family.”
His thumbs caressed the soft skin of her throat. One press, that would be all that it would take, just a little force from his thumbs, and he’d deny her breath. His gaze slammed into hers. “Tell me, Breena. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
HE’D NEVER KILLED a woman.
It was his rule when he hired out his sword to anyone who had the coin. His only rule. An Ursan warrior never fought until forced and only to protect his family and his homeland. What he’d done to survive, to ensure his brothers’ survival, would have brought shame to his people. In those early days after leaving Ursa, he’d sunk to the lowest depths. He lived with other mercenaries, men who’d kill him in his sleep to get his job, or just for the pleasure of watching him bleed.
He’d worked for the grasping, greedy overlords who cared more about securing their own power than taking care of their people. They starved while his people, whose rulers were just and fair, died. But those thoughts always led to madness. Hell, he had been a little crazy after he fled his homeland with his brothers. The harsh, pained sounds of the dying people echoed in his ears. The echoes only silenced when replaced by the cries of his young brothers begging for a mother who wouldn’t come to comfort them. Would never come.
Only cheap ale and a few moments’ pleasure in a paid woman’s bed drowned out the noise. A part of it.
Then he’d broken his own rule. He was paid to kill a young girl, no more than ten. All for the sake of more power. More coin. The girl’s only crime was her marriage alliance. She was promised to a boy who’d one day be king of his lands. A rival family had a daughter of their own they wanted to see sitting upon the throne.