Page 81 of Feralheart

I pulled blades from the sheaths at my side.

Calling guards would be the next wisest thing to do. That was what any lord or lady would’ve done. But that would raise questions I didn’t want to answer. Like why I was following a commons woman in the first place. And why my pulse was slamming harder than it had during my first kill.

The gardens were beautiful in the way everything elite was. Each plant had been nurtured, and every path had been groomed and placed to ensure the best aesthetic. Nature had been forced to perform for our exclusive consumption.

Flowering vines climbed trellises in geometric patterns. Hedges formed walls that created private alcoves. Water features trickled in carefully orchestrated harmony.

The garden had been curated until the wildness had been bred out of it.

Eradin walked fast, her gait slightly uneven to favor her left foot, moving deeper into the gardens, toward the far wall where the faelights rarely traveled and shadows pooled.

The two men split up, one going left, one right. Flanking her.

I tightened my grip on my blades.

They’d had training. They knew how to close distance without being seen and use terrain to cut off escape routes.

Someone had sent them.

She stopped near a fountain, its water dark, and cupped her face with her palms. She just stood there, not looking around, barely paying attention to what was moving closer.

Vulnerable in a way that gutted me.

The men closed in.

I could walk away. One less competitor. One less problem. My mother’s voice echoed in my head: Sentiment is weakness, Fenian.

Helping Eradin had already cost a scribe his kingdom and Meckard twenty-four years of standing. Whatever this cost, it would be steeper, and it wouldn’t be mine alone to pay.

The men pulled their weapons.

My feet moved.

Eradin’s head came up and her hand snapped to her hip. She fumbled to pull her blade. Whatever weapon she carried, it was clear she didn’t know how to use it.

She was going to die.

The realization landed in my chest as I rushed out of the shadows.

She pulled the blade from its sheath. The curved weapon caught the moonlight, black and wicked-sharp.

It looked too big and deadly in her small hand.

As they leaped toward her, she swung the blade in a wide arc.

Clumsy. Desperate. But the blade was sharp enough it didn’t matter. It connected with the first man’s arm, slicing through fabric and skin. He staggered back, his groan ringing out.

The second man gouged his knife toward her throat.

Fucking, no.

I’d killed before. All sanctioned, clean. This wouldn’t be clean, because they’d dared to touch her.

The first man was already wounded, off-balance from her wild swing.

I caught his wrist mid-strike and made the bone snap under my grip before I ripped his throat open with my blade. I caught him before he could slump, because I’d done nowhere near enough, and punched my blade up under his ribs from behind, angling toward the heart the way my weapons master had drilled into me until it was instinct. He folded, and I held him with my blade still inside him until his weight went slack.

Gurgling, he slumped to the ground.