“You have to save them, Wregen.” I don’t try to hide the catch in my throat. The thought of Panta losing her draikani sends a chill down my spine, filling every part of me with ice. “Even if you won’t do it for you, do it for me. I’m begging you.”
The anger that flickers across our bond tells me as clear as words could that my plea is a torch tossed into kindling. He loathes the idea, eyes flashing as he watches me, pulse beating in his throat. And then he shakes his head as if he’s disappointed in me, kicks off his boots, strips away his clothes, and steps a few feet away. Before I can say anything else, he’s gone, leaving me to race after him as I pull my knives from my belt and prepare to kill the elves I stole them from.
Chapter twenty-three
Wregen
We Did This
Thefuryripplingthroughme is explosive, incinerating everything it touches. And I will use it all to take down my enemies.
She. Is. Mine.
Yet, barely a breath after proclaiming that she’d rather die than submit to me, my mate begged me to protect the turnip beast. She’d have been on her knees if I demanded it, pleading with me to save a dragon she barely knows, with nothing but a meaningless second-hand bond to connect them. If I didn’t want to kill the clingy cunt before, I’d be hungering for their death now. Wrath won’t tolerate any competition for my allegiance, and I won’t allow anyone, anything, any mote of dust, to compete for my skjaldmær’s attention.
She. Is. Mine.
Sucking in a breath, I free Wrath and give him our body. I feel his rage as sharply as my own. He’ll do what must be done.
Ours, he reminds me as his thoughts shove me to the side, casting himself out to take our skin and chase our revenge. He’s hungered for Balin’s death more voraciously than me, if that’s possible. He’ll take it today, along with every other elf who rideswith him—once they’ve struck down the dragon. That beast has lived too long, and Wrath rejoices that they’ll soon stop sucking up the air that belongs to him and him alone.
This time, though, he keeps me closer to the surface, as if he wants me by his side in battle. Perhaps it’s because I know our enemy better than him. Or maybe he wants me to join him in celebration of Balin and the dragon’s deaths—victories that have filled our dreams over the centuries. Whatever the reason, I share his body with him, grateful for the chance to engage in this game with the deadliest creature to walk any of these worlds, other than the spawn of that swine Loki.
Wrath unfurls his wings as soon as we break free of the tunnel, keeping them just large enough to fly without creating an enormous target for those arrow-wielding pricks. His erratic flight style returned to him quickly, despite his centuries-long confinement. He emerged unchanged as soon as we left Helheim and I gave him the chance.
I can only see through his eyes, with no control over where they go, but he’s a strategist. He watches as he writhes, giving himself a clear view of the combatants the entire time. Balin leads because that conniving bastard wants nothing more than to end my life, but he’s not a warrior. His elves are so focused on the turnip beast, they don’t even know we’re here. We’re invisible, lost in the flickering shadows along the top of the cavern.
But then the weasel notices Wrath, drawing the rat’s gaze and squeal. They’re a hundred feet below us, and I’ve never regretted more choosing to let those creatures live. I should have killed them both when I had the chance.
“Wrath has come. He’ll save us,”the squirrel screams, drawing every gaze in the cave up to me.
Our collective rage billows out, sucking in the oxygen around us as the fuel it needs to burn so fiercely. To destroy all who threaten our mate.
As one, the elves drop the arrows in their hands, reaching back for a different weapon. And I know why the dragon still lives. They want the turnip beast alive and weren’t using their poison. That’s reserved for me alone.
I’ll think about that more after we’ve ended this farce of an attack. They didn’t bring nearly enough fighters to challenge Wrath. Even with the fucking arrows.
We leave the shadows and roll toward them, holding our flame ready to attack. My monster’s fury washes around me, but it can’t hide the joy pounding at its center, a beating heart. He loves the chase and has survived centuries without enemies to challenge him. He held back last time, letting the horned beasts survive, but he won’t make that mistake again. They carried the elves here, joined them in their assault, and are as responsible for this attack as their two-legged allies.
The first pair doesn’t stand a chance. They throw themselves to the front of the pack, as if they might be lucky enough to shoot the arrow that first pierces my beast’s skin. But Wrath won’t be hit by a single arrow, and none of the bastards behind them can shoot with a unicorn and an enormous elf between them and their target. Wrath doesn’t pull his bite this time, taking the elf and half his mount’s back in a single mouthful.
I cringeinside, memories of his meals early in our lives lashing out to suck me into their grim detail. I can almost feel the human flesh trapped between my teeth as I awaken cold and miserable on some dirty, decrepit street.
For a moment, I wish he’d shoved me further in my hole, where I wouldn’t experience this part of his attack so viscerally. This is for him alone, and I sure as fuck don’t want to be here.
But here I am, and this pair will be the first of many. I spit out the feel of flesh and bone in my mouth—nearly as real as it would be if I’d been the one to take that bite—and steel myself for the rest. It’s the price I’ll need to pay to watch Balin die, and I would personally eat an elf and its beast alive to be present for that.
Wrath doesn’t watch the body parts drop to the ground, despite his urge to chase after the meal he’s losing. But I’d have been pissed at him if he had. His focus is on the threat fanning out around us, exactly where it belongs. These elves recognize the monster they face, and that a joint attack is their best hope for survival.
They won’t, but at least they’re not gods-damned idiots like the first one.
Wrath continues to spin and gyrate, making himself narrow and hard to hit, even as he marks all of them. He recalls some from their first attack and knows who can do what. Who’s a threat. He’s keeping his eyes on Balin—because we won’t let him escape this time—while tracking the others so he can take out those most likely to have a chance against him.
His attacksurprises even me. He’s devilishly careful not to forecast his intent, and if the elves’ responses are any indication, it worked. This isn’t a kill shot. It’s to throw them off balance and dislodge as many of the bows as he can. Before they could possibly respond and drop their formation, he shifts to the left and attacks from the side.
His mouth opens wide so he can take an occasional bite, but that’s not his goal. He’s mowing through them like the children’s game, the ball that topples every bottle it touches on his path. Ruxi’s attack when we left Álfheimr flits into my thoughts, and I wonder if my beast is taking strategy from the dragon he despises. But I shove that ludicrous idea aside, focusing on our attackers.
Half of the elves, maybe more, lost their grip on their mounts or dropped their bows as the unicorns reared back or flung themselves to the side in their desperate attempts to avoid the gaping maw spinning through their line. For a split-second, I wonder if he’ll chase them or focus on the elves who still could take him down, but he answers that before the question emerges fully in my mind.
