Her gaze flicked from the man to Drake, who was dragging his shirt over his head, and the man approaching, his hand lifting to reveal a knife. For a heartbeat, perhaps longer, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. The air turned cold against her skin. The world narrowed to that single, horrifying image: Drake half-turned away, bare-skinned and unaware, while a stranger who somehow looked familiar lifted a blade meant for his back.
Violet tried to call out—his name, a warning, anything—but her tongue seemed trapped in her throat. By the time shouts of warning came from the people closest, the man was already upon them.
Drake.
Her body moved before the rest of her caught up. Sound fell away, swallowed whole until there was nothing but the dull, thunderous pound of her own heartbeat. Dread flooded every hollow inside her, filling her chest, her bones, her limbs with a cold, choking dread. It happened exceedingly fast and painstakingly slowly. It occurred to her, in the half-second before impact, that she was about to do something she could not take back, but she had no regrets.
Violet’s shoulder drove into his, shoving Drake out of the blade’s path. He staggered half a step, turning toward her in confusion as he jerked his shirt down. She didn’t have the luxury of meeting that look.
The blade, meant for his back, swung down straight toward her.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
*
Rage exploded inDrake’s veins at the sight of some bloody cockchafer driving a blade at Violet. He seized the back of the collar of her jacket and yanked her out of the way, his other hand clamping around the attacker’s wrist mid-swing. Bone snapped beneath the force of his twist, the dagger clattering to the ground.
The man screamed, a wretched, cracking howl.
Good, you blackguard.
One would expect at least two or three of the blood-hungry spectators to lend a hand and restrain the assailant. Instead, fists started to fly in every direction. Christ. A brawl broke out around him, bodies slamming together, a spray of expletives erupting like musket fire. Drake cursed his own damned inattentiveness, his instincts having failed him at the mostinopportune moment. But before he could dwell on his mistake, every sense in him snapped awake, sharp, bristling, and late.
So damn late.
The ripping burn of steel tearing through flesh came the same moment Violet’s cry of his name split the air, followed by a chorus of familiar curses from his brothers somewhere behind the fray. Then the presence at his back vanished, the blade wrenched free as the coward was dragged away, leaving heat and blood to pour down the back of his left flank.
“Drake! You’re bleeding!”
Thank you for stating the obvious, princess.He sent her a reassuring smile, but by the look on her face, he failed. He couldn’t believe someone had stabbed him in the damn back.
On the bright side, she saved you.
Saved him? Saved him his arse! She bloody put herself in front of a knife. His mood darkened once more. His gaze caught on Reaper, his brother’s boot pinning the limp assailant’s neck.
“Don’t kill the man,” Drake snapped. “We don’t kill.”
Reaper didn’t move, ominously grinding out, “Tonight, I’ll make an exception.”
“No exception. Drag him to the dungeon if you want to vent.”
“Drake.” Dagger’s growl cut through the chaos as he appeared, eyes murderously dark. “What the hell did you get yourself into? More are incoming.”
Damn it.
He snatched Violet’s wrist, ignoring the sting in his side. “We need to get out of here.”
“I agree,” Violet said worriedly. “What’s even going on here?”
A difficult question to answer. Equally difficult as the fact she had almost taken a blade for him. He mistrusted acts of sacrifice. Oftentimes, they were simply calculated moves, and Drake was too bone-weary to question the suspicion surrounding her. Allhe wanted to do was get her to safety and keep from bleeding out.
He clamped his free hand over the wound, more irritated than alarmed at the slickness beneath his palm, and said, “The hell if I know.”
“Go,” Reaper said, a manic light in his eyes. “Take your little flower home and get stitched up.”
“The tavern.” Knight materialized from the crowd, dragging a fellow by the collar in each hand. “Take yourselves there. Now.” His tone brooked no argument.
Drake agreed. He tightened his grip on her wrist and pulled her toward the exit, placing pressure on the wound. Hurt like the deuced devil.
