Quinn effortlessly, and not hindered at all by his bleeding arm, thwarts the next attack in a movement so fast and fluid I would have missed it if I blinked. The rider, confused as his horse slows to a stop, blinks blankly at the spray of blood covering Quinn. Then he gapes in horror at what’s left of his stump of a mutilated leg.
His wail pierces my ears like daggers, and I gag at that severed limb lying in the dirt. The man slides off his horse, and the animal runs off into the thicket. Quinn doesn’t waste a moment. He strides over to the defeated man, and with his tattooed fingers curled tight around his sword’s hilt, rolls his eyes with disgust.
“You should have heeded my friend’s warning.” Then he drives his blade deep into the man’s chest, cutting bone as easily as if he were slicing through air.
The coppery tang of blood and sweat and fear and death… Putrid odors my books also failed to accurately convey. How could they? Or maybe they did, and it was me, having experienced nothing but my tower, who couldn’t grasp the vivacity of their words? And as I watch Quinn rip the blade free from the man’s chest, I know I’ll neverunsee this.Unsmell this. Then he focuses on me. Primal demonic thrill corrupts every feature on his face. I can’t deny that he is a magnificent monster, and when he wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand, I nod to assure him I’m unharmed. Then he joins Wren and Dax, both making quick work of the other assailants.
Wren has his attacker off his horse. Their swords cross again and again as they move together in a brutal dance. Wren is a breathtaking sight of barely constrained, brutal power. There is nothing left of the grubby boy who would sneak to the tower to visit me. He is ruthless. Wielding that weapon with the skill and grace of a man born to battle. Even when it seems the outlaw gains the upper hand, Wren counters the strike and makes quick work of impaling him through the right shoulder. He slides in deep, twisting. Grinding steel against bone until the man’s weapon slips from his grip.
Heaving, Wren pulls free his blade. “Your stupidity and greed got you all killed.”
“Go fuck yourself,” the defeated man spits.
“Your arrogance is admirable but grossly unearned.” A sinister grin curls Wren’s lips a moment before he swipes his sword across the man’s throat, opening a deep gash along his neck.
The outlaw drops to his knees. He gurgles out the most awful sounds as he drowns in his blood. Wren steps back when the man tips forward to land facedown at his feet. He jumps over his kill and darts toward Dax, but that battle is all but finished. Quinn has the beaten outlaw’s arms pinned behind his back. Dax, the scoundrel, antagonizes the man by waving a dagger in front of his face.
“Now it’s three against one. I should let my soulless friend here”—Dax taunts him, motioning to Quinn with the dagger—“have fun ripping you to shreds.” Then he leans in close and snarls in the man’s face, “Was it worth it?”
I have to shift positions for a better view, and when I do, I see how badly they battered the man. He’s bleeding from…well, everywhere. I doubt he could stand if Quinn wasn’t holding him.
“The king has taxed this province to the point of starvation,” he rasps between cracked lips. “We have no choice but to loot travelers.”
Dax holds the weapon so close to the outlaw’s terrified eye that even I cringe. “Life, I’ve learned, is about choices. For instance, you made a mistake when you took things too far by demanding our woman.”
The man chokes on a mouthful of blood. He spits it out before answering. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Aye,” Dax agrees, “I can, and I do, you fucking fool.”
His audacity forces me out of my hiding spot. Quinn sees me first. He rolls his eyes and lets out a growl that has Wren swinging around, sword still in hand to eye whatever threat is charging up behind them. He lowers his weapon when he realizes it’s me, but his glare fries me as I approach.
“No one told you to come out yet,” Wren grumbles.
Ignoring him, I shove an amused Dax aside and march up to the defeated outlaw. “You are despicable.”
He stops squirming and blinks his one good eye at me. The other is swollen shut. His mouth drops open, and he works on words that seem stuck to the back of his throat. Behind me, Wren grunts out a curse, and when finally the man speaks, he utters, “You are a vision.” His strained voice cracks. He adds, “Like an angel.”
Thunderstruck by his odd remarks, I simply gape at him until Dax pulls me away and shoves me at Wren. He catches me, then releases me like I’m a plague. Wren wipes his hand on his breeches as if touching me is the vilest thing under the sun.
“Make this fucking quick.” Wren barks the order at Dax. He drags a scowl over me. “We’ve been delayed long enough.”
“You know I hate making my fucking quick.” Dax scrapes the blade down the man’s lacerated cheek. He releases a loud, frustrated sigh. “Well, you heard the man. You got lucky.”
That’s the only warning Dax affords him.
Quinn grabs the man’s hair and yanks it upward, extending his neck. Dax steps back and raises his sword. He separates the head from the body in one rapid and brutal swing. It happens so swiftly, so cleanly, with the tip of the blade inches from slicing Quinn. The barbaric move proves the trust these men have for each other and how they can predict each other’s movements.
And oh, God. Quinn tosses the severed head away like trash. Dax gives a dramatic shiver, with Wren complaining that the latter takes nothing seriously. But my focus falls back on the body, disgusted as I watch blood seep from the mutilated neck. It drops like a sack of broken bones, and I swear, I almost lose what little food I ate this morning.
Wren turns and scorches me with a scathing glare—as if I’m the origin of this carnage. I suppose I am in his mind because I’m the reason we stopped.
One more sin he can throw at me.
The men go to the horses to wash the blood from their hands and faces. Quinn bandages his wound on his outer biceps, and, quick as a flash, we’re ready to leave.
Dax takes my hand and walks me toward his horse. “Wren can hold a mean grudge. I don’t envy your task of trying to earn his forgiveness.”
These men might know Wren, but I do as well. However, the person we know are vastly different people. I see the battle of those two selves reflected in his turbulent brown eyes. Each side of himself is striving for dominance. Each fighting to erase the other. One is the damaged and angry man he’s become. The other is the boy who came to the tower year after year. In the rain, snow, heat, and cold. To keep a lonely little girl company. That person is still there, buried under layers of pain, and I haven’t loved Wren for twelve years to give up on him now.
