Page 46 of Despite Mortal Sins


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The hard way, then.

At the last moment, Isaiah dropped his katana, moving marginally to the left to avoid the dead-on strike meant for his head. Visceral agony exploded in the space between his shoulder and his neck as the battle axe separated bone and flesh, Isaiah’s hand strangled around Jaden’s neck in a flash of movement.

The lethal ability that lingered in Isaiah’s skin roared to life. His eyes became ice-white in response to the massive outburst of psychic energy. Starved and hungry for a victim, death found purchase in the tissues of his opponent.

Realization dawned in Jaden’s eyes only a second before his body evaporated into dust.

A pregnant pause before the orb overhead qualified his victory with a pop of sound, immediately returning the clan bonds—and the sovereign title—to Isaiah.

Flexing his psychic muscles, his irises remained frosted white as he rapidly checked on his people’s wellbeing. More than a handful immediately relaxed upon his metaphysical contact with their minds, and soothing emotions flowed back through the bonded connections in waves of unfettered support.

His eyes found Rukia’s in the next moment—ensuring she was safe and unharmed. To his everlasting relief, she was.

Exhaling, his breath hitched before he remembered that there was still a large battle axe imbedded deeply in his shoulder. With an amused chuckle, he cast a vision over his assembled audience, instantly portraying himself as whole, unwounded.

When Derikles went to close the distance between them, Isaiah spoke a single word to his anxious second. “Wait.”

Isaiah knew that Jaden’s sovereign would have felt the psychic bond sever immediately upon the man’s death. The other Raeth would come looking for a body or some type of closure.

Saiyn appeared in front of him only moments after warning Isaiah of her arrival. The other sovereign had always been one Isaiah had considered an ally.

“I told him not to challenge you.” Her features pinched. “He was thirsty for power, though, and your clan is the cream of the crop.”

Isaiah let the words linger in the air for a beat before he spoke. “There is no body.”

“I understand.”

It was relief in her eyes before she bowed her head, processing the words. Isaiah couldn’t help but wonder if Jaden’s death was for the better, given her response.

The agony of his devastating wounds started to tear into his conscious mind. Isaiah fought to keep upright. Regardless of his win, he was unwilling to show weakness in front of Saiyn.

“He fought well, Sai.”

Pride abounded in the weak smile Saiyn wore when she looked up. “I shall take my leave, Isaiah. Live well, brother.”

The customary salute was the other sovereign’s word that no animosity would remain between them. “Live well.”

Saiyn vanished out of his territory. Isaiah instantly took stock of his injuries, casually aware that Rukia—and his lieutenants—were closing the space between them.

The battle axe lodged in his shoulder had dug deep into his flesh, severing bone and muscle in a single blow. In a testament to the other man’s strength, Isaiah had lost all feeling and function of his right arm.

It was a good thing he was left-handed.

If he hadn’t made contact with Jaden’s skin in the split second that followed, he would have undoubtedly lost the challenge as a result of the wound.

Blood poured from the wound, saturating his fighting leathers, and slicking down his body. It dripped off his fingers at steady intervals, pooling on the ground. The superficial laceration on his flank was a ripple of pulsing pain, but it’d cause no lasting damage.

He shuddered, a bare movement, and closed his eyes for half a moment before opening them to see Rukia’s concerned gaze staring back.

“Are you okay?”

She scoffed, a mixture of outrage and concern. “Am I okay? You’re the one fighting for his life.”

“I won.”

“You’re literally bleeding out. It only counts as winning if it’s a flawless victory.”

Isaiah could only smirk in response. Jaeda would make sure he’d heal from both wounds while he was out of commission. The recoil—and he was certain it was coming—would be a thing of excruciating absolution when it arrived.

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