But I also see what he sees. The other three. The crossbows, black and oily, leaning against a barrel, just within reach. He would kill one. Maybe two. And the others would fill his back with bolts. He is a warrior, but he is not a god. He is tactically trapped. His own strength, his own rage, is a liability.
A high, thin whimper cuts through the morning air.
Jax, on his way back from the fire, kicks the wagon cage. "Shut your holes, you bitches, or I'll give you something to cry about."
The whimper cuts off into a choked sob.
My hands clench in the hay.This is just like the raid.This is the wagon I was supposed to be in. Those women, huddled in the filth, their eyes dead and vacant... that is my face. That is my fate, if not for Othic.
The rage I felt last night, the cold, sharp spark, begins to burn. It is not like Othic's rage, a roaring fire that wants to destroy everything. Mine is different. It is a cold, patient,suffocating ice. I know how to wait. I have been invisible my whole life. I survived Lord Privis by becoming furniture. These men do not even know I am here.
The day drags on, an eternity of tension. The sun moves, a slow, crawling fire across the sky. The slavers get drunker. The women in the cage grow quieter, more hopeless.
Then the sun sets, and the barn grows dark, lit by the red, flickering light of their fire. The shadows are long and grotesque.
Tars, the leader, laughs and shoves Jax. "Right... Jax! You're up first. Go pick one."
I watch in sick, cold horror as Jax unlocks the cage, drags a weeping woman out by her hair, and hauls her into the dark farmhouse. My stomach clenches.
The farmhouse door slams shut. Theclankof the iron cage being locked again echoes in the awful quiet.
I look at Othic. He isvibrating. He is shaking with a silent, profound self-loathing. It is a look I recognize. It is the suffocating hatred he wore in the halls of Privis's estate. He is the protector who cannot protect, and it is killing him from the inside out. He turns his head away from me, his jaw clenching so hard I hear his tusksgrindtogether. He is ashamed.
This is my moment. He is trapped in a warrior's mind. I must give him a different path.
I wait. Time stretches. The farmhouse door creaks. Jax stumbles out, laughing and zipping his trousers. He hauls the weeping, limp woman back andtossesher onto the ground in front of the cage like a sack of grain.
"Next!" he slurs.
I look at Tars. The leader. He is drinking heavily, his head lolling back as he drains a skin of zhisk. He is careless. Drunk. And hanging from his belt, blazing in the firelight as he stumbles, is the heavy ring ofiron keys.
The key. The key to the cage.
My gaze slides from the keys to the pile of weapons by the fire pit. The slavers are lazy. They leave their heavy clubs and rusted broadswords in a careless pile, ten feet from where they sleep.
My mind, once frozen by fear, begins towork.
Four of them. They are armed, yes, but they are drunk. They are slow. They are stupid.
In the cage, there are eight women.
I look at Othic. He is still staring at the crossbows, lost in his own shame.
I crawl over the dry, rustling hay, my body shaking. The smell of his sweat—musky, clean, and vital—is a strange comfort in the stench of the barn. I lean close, so close my lips brush the rough, coarse hair at his temple.
"Othic," I whisper, my voice barely a breath.
He tenses, his good arm moving to shield me, his head snapping toward me. His eyes are wild.
"Do not fight them," I breathe, my hand landing on his bicep. The muscle is hard as stone. "We cannot. Not like this. You are hurt."
I feel the growl start in his chest, the protest. "I am..."
"Butthey can," I hiss, nodding toward the cage, where eight pairs of eyes are watching us, wide and terrified. "There are eight of them. And four of him. They are drunk. They are slow."
He stares at me, his golden eyes narrowing, the growl dying in his throat. He does not understand.
"Help me get that key," I whisper, my voice fierce and shaking. "Help me set them free."
