I almost touch the birthmark cresting the blade of her trembling shoulder, then snatch my hand back and curse.
I promised I wouldn’t hurt her.
I lied.
None of this made sense before, and now it makestoomuch fucking sense.
No wonder Aravyn kept her hidden. No wonder the fucking Shulák were here. No wonder this necklace is so heavy in my pocket ...
But she was wrong to pull such a pledge from me. Her hope was blind, set on the shoulders of the wrong person.
The child tips her head and tries to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp.
Nausea spikes up my throat.
She saved herself from three ferocious Vruks who tore her life to shreds, only to crawl into the arms of a fiercer threat.
There will be no glory in this death. No shade of honor. Only the blood of a frightened child on my hands.
Smother her while she sleeps or catch the lethal grace.
She looks up at me, trying to speak through a throat that’s been scraped raw.
“It’s okay,” I lie, cupping the back of her head and easing her close. Her cheek settles on my chest again; a comfort that can only be temporary.
Make it quick.
I press my fingertips between her ribs, feeling the beat of her galloping target. That noose of shadows thickens, like the Irilak are anticipating the warm meal to garnish their banquet.
Fuck.
My neck buckles, face dropping into her soot-stained hair. Floral spice whips up and snatches me, dragging my nose deeper until my mouth is pressed against a fresh wound sliced into her scalp.
Liquid warms my lips, and I jerk back, but carnal instinct has my tongue darting out ...
The taste of her blood is a bolt to my brain.
My heart.
My fuckingsoul.
My legs give way, and I fall to my knees, pulling sharp slices of air through a constricting throat. Every muscle in my body hardens, veins pushing to the surface, my very matter trying to take up more space in the world that suddenly seems too small. Too cruel.
Too fucking dangerous.
I tip my head, seeking the fading stars through twisted ropes of smoke, teeth bared as if I could leap up and chew the prickles of light until their luster no longer sits in the sky. “You bastards …”
I snarl, grip tightening.
No.
Pushing to my feet, I make for my horse in long, determined strides. I climb atop the saddle, bundle the child in my lap, and kick the beast forward—scattering the noose of shadows and my dwindling self-respect in the same ugly motion.
“Go fuck yourselves,” I mutter, severing my sight of the stars by charging beneath the ancient canopy of trees.
The child will not die tonight, but not for the right reasons ...
This act is purelyselfish.
