"Hewes ran," I said against her ear, my lips brushing her skin. "East side. Old warehouse district."
"Then let's go." Her voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Let's end this."
She urged Starfield forward, and the kuda leaped into motion, its powerful muscles bunching and releasing as it carried us toward vengeance.
The warehouse district was a graveyard of rusted metal, a monument to Fange City's decay.
Structures that had once been functional now stood as hollow shells, their walls collapsed, roofs caved in, everythingstripped away by scavengers over the years. The bones of industry picked clean, leaving nothing but shadows and dust and the ghosts of what might have been.
We found Hewes in the largest warehouse—a massive structure that still had most of its walls intact.
And he wasn't alone.
Six Trogvyk mercenaries stood between him and a small cruiser that had been hidden under tarps and debris, camouflaged to blend with the surrounding wreckage. The ship looked old but functional—built for quick escapes.
Of course Hewes had an escape plan.
Men like him always did. They survived by being slippery, by always having an out, by never fully committing to anything that might get them killed.
He saw us coming and raised a blaster—military grade, powerful enough to punch through armor.
"Stay back!" he screamed, his voice high and panicked, all his earlier bravado gone.
Merrilee pulled Starfield to a halt at the warehouse entrance.
Hewes's hand was shaking. Fear or rage or both. His finger tightened on the trigger, the muscles in his hand going white with tension.
He aimed at Merrilee.
At my mate.
I moved.
Threw us both sideways off Starfield, twisting to put my body between her and the blast, operating on pure instinct and the overwhelming need to protect her.
The shot hit me in the shoulder—white-hot pain that exploded through my entire left side like lightning through my nerves. The impact spun me around, sent me crashing to the ground hard enough to drive the air from my lungs.
But I was Vaktaire.
I'd been shot before. Stabbed. Burned. Broken.
This was just pain. Pain could be endured.
"Stay down," I told Merrilee, pushing myself upright, my right hand finding the blade at my belt, my left arm hanging, but still functional enough. Blood ran hot down my arm, soaking through my shirt, dripping onto the dusty ground.
But I could still fight.
I could always fight.
The Trogvyk charged, their heavy boots pounding against the concrete floor.
Six against one. Bad odds for most species.
Not for a Vaktaire warrior who'd just watched a slaver try to kill his mate.
The first one died before he reached me—the tip of my blade opening his throat in a spray of dark blood that painted the ground. The second lost his arm at the elbow, the limb spinning away in a spray of blood and bone fragments. The third tried to flank me—I caught him with a kick that shattered his knee with a wet crunch and finished him with a downward strike that split his skull.
The fourth and fifth came together. Coordinated. Smart.
