“No, mother! I told you I am not like him.” My voice sharpens. “No. I said no!” I slap my own face, trying to hush her goddamn mouth.
The wolfmen shift uneasily. Nikolai watches like I am a puzzle.
I snap to my sense, lick my lips, stand straighter.
My fingers close around the hatchet tucked into the back waistband of my pants. I slide it free and roll the handle in my palm.
“Forgive me,” I say, and bow slightly. “It’s rude to argue with my mother when I have guests. Pour yourself some wine. Introductions are over. We’re friends now. But I prefer the name Mad Butcher. Would you like to see why?”
Before he can answer, a raven drops out of nowhere and lands beside my boot. Its black eyes glitter, head tilted as if listening.
I bark at it. “Not now, Mother. I am busy! Can’t you see I have guests?”
Some of the men laugh.
Nikolai does not. He nods at one of his archers. “Show him what we do with mothers here.”
The archer raises his bow and shoots the raven. The arrow punches through the bird and pins it to the snow.
The sound that comes out of me is not human.
“You killed her!” I roar, my eyes wide. I pull on my hair till it sticks up.
Then, I lunge. The hatchet sings through the air and bites into the scalp of the archer. Hair and skin peel away from his skull in one horrific sweep. He drops screaming, clutching the exposed bone. I stomp the back of his head until it breaks, the sound a wet crack under my boot.
Some men cheer, more loyal to violence than their kind.
I feel better.
I hold the scalp up high, wrist limp, hair crazy, and stare at their leader, head cocked almost to my shoulder, no smile. Blood runs down my arm, warm against the cold air.
Then I let it drop.
I twirl the hatchet again. “Now, I thought we were friends. I want to play a game,” I say. “If I win, we walk. If I lose... well, that will not happen.”
The men snicker, but it is thinner now. Uneasy.
Nikolai’s blue eyes gleam behind the metal slits. He drags his dirty knuckles slowly down Keira’s cheek, then across her collarbone.
“Okay, if you win, you leave,” he says. “If you lose, I keep everything you brought here. Women. Men. Guns. You. All of it.”
I hear Petyr swearing under his breath behind me. I hear Peighton’s soft inhale. She knows what it means when men gamble this way. She also knows there is no choice.
Nikolai pulls his own hatchet. The circle widens.
We move.
The first clash of metal jars all the way up my arm. We circle in the snow, boots crunching, muscles tense. His style is wild but strong. I take a slash across my forearm. Blood sticks to the fresh cut and freezes.
The voices start to creep back in, hissing.
He is stronger. You are slowing. You will lose her. You will always lose her.
I snarl and drive into him harder. We lose our hatchets and hit the ground, rolling, grappling, trading blows. We slam into the ring’s edge and crash into Peighton’s legs. She stumbles.
I see her fall backward.
Slow motion.
