A war cry rose above the din of the battle, so fierce that each man looked up. The ground shook beneath the horses’ hooves. From the treeline, a dozen men charged forward on their mounts, the glowing blue of limyerite torches blazing. Armed with bows, they fired arrows at the bandits with deadly accuracy.
Seeing the tide turning, the bandits fled as fast as they could, but the mounted cavalry ran them down with ease.
One man stood out. He rode a magnificent horse through the swarm of bandits as if they were nothing but stalks of wheat—his limyerite-tipped axe a blur of glittering steel, cutting down men without pause. Black leather armour, ebony steed, and against it all, the crimson lining of his cloak snapped behind him like a bloodied war banner. His mount wove past sword strokes and arrows alike with almost supernatural grace.
A calloused hand seized her wrist, yanking her away. She stumbled, veil slipping askew. The bandit grabbed the back of her dress and dragged her along the ground. She clawed at his hand, trying to wrench free. He gasped. Stopped. Let her go. She looked up and saw a blade sticking out of his ribs.
A soldier with auburn hair—young, lean, quick as a striking hawk—materialized beside the bandit. He didn’t spare her a glance, only barked in a sharp voice, “On your feet, Highness!” before whirling to block another strike.
For a heartbeat, she thought she might be safe, until a third attacker lunged from her blind side, where the carriage wheel jutted out, dragging her away. Pain shot through her right leg. She resisted. He wrenched her around to face him, teeth bared.
The air keened. An axe slammed into the bandit’s neck from the side, a brutal arc of steel and limyerite. A hot, wet spray hit JingYi’s face and veil. She watched, stunned, as a pulsing fountain of crimson arced from the severed artery, and the axe sliced deeper. A metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth and nose. The bandit’s fingers stayed clenched around her wrist, an iron shackle dragging her to the ground as he fell.
JingYi stumbled as her right leg—the weak, traitorous limb—buckled beneath her. She hit the ground hard. The air punched out of her lungs.
A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, muting the world. Her body felt distant, numb. The blood on her face was just warmth, the screaming just a buzz. She recognized it—not a physical wound, but the body retreating from what the mind refused to hold. She’d watched it happen in soldiers at the infirmary a hundred times: the glassy stare, the stillness that mimicked peace. She’d never understood it until now. The dust swirled around her as she tried to steady herself. Above her, the first stars of dusk pricked through the darkening sky, indifferent and cold.
The ground shook, and a shadow fell over her. The rider stood steps away, a giant of black leather and blood-spattered steel. Through her tangled veil, she saw him lift his visor.
His eyes were an unnatural, piercing blue, like shards of sapphire. They seemed to see straight through the veil and into her soul. His expression was utterly devoid of any emotion—no triumph, no fatigue, no trace of the violence he’d just inflicted—as if he hadn’t just cut through a swarm of bandits to reach her.
As they stared at each other, sheknew.
The Wolf of Tremore had come for her.
CHAPTER 7
ALEXANDER
Alexander hadn’t expected the repair on the granary roof to take two days—two daysthat could’ve been spent riding to meet Princess Jing Yi himself. How the beams had rotted, and so close to his wedding day, he couldn’t tell. Only that it needed to be fixed, and fixed well, before winter.
He’d been directing the last of the repairs when the scout arrived. One look at the man’s face and his stomach roiled. Bandits in the southern reaches, too close to Darion’s route. Too close to his betrothed.
He was on his way before the scout finished speaking. “Saddle my horse. Gather a dozen armed men. Now.”
The road should’ve been safe. They’d crushed dens and hung traders a few years ago, scouring the land clean. But those carrion feeders had found a way back, seeking prey of a certain kind: young, unmated, Omega.
Princess JingYi was all three.
When he’d arrived and scanned the battlefield, he spotted her straightaway. Veiled, slight, and about to be carted off.
Every sound drained from the world, leaving one crystalline thought: She did not belong in a bloody skirmish.
He didn’t remember spurring his horse. Only the axe flying, the bandit dropping, and then—her gaze finding his, as if he were the only solid thing in a crumbling world. The fighting guttered out around them. Alexander dismounted, exhaled, and stopped in front of her sprawled body. His eyes strayed to the closed carriage doors, then back to his betrothed.
Why in the blazes was sheoutsidethe carriage?
Had she tried to fight? The thought made him want to drag his hand through his hair. Brave, but entirely too reckless.
Reckless or not, she was his responsibility now.
He crouched beside her. The dead bandit’s fingers were still locked around her wrist. He pried them loose, not flinching when bones cracked. When he pulled her hand free, reddened marks ringed her delicate skin.
She’d bruise by morning. His jaw went rigid.
She was trembling—small, fine tremors she fought to stop with nothing but will. His body screamed to act, to gather her close and block out the chaos still thick in the air, but he held himself back. She was a princess, a stranger, a woman whose face he couldn’t even see. Would she welcome his touch? Fear it? The veil hid everything—her expression, her eyes, any clue to what she felt behind that wall of fabric. He didn’t even know if she could see him through it.
“Princess,” he said in Isseric. “Are you hurt?”
