He is slumped against the cliff wall, his face pale under his gray-green skin. His left shoulder is bleeding again, a fresh, dark stain spreading across his tunic where the beast backhanded him. The scar tissue must have torn.
"You're hurt," I say. My voice is a thin, reedy-sounding thing, trembling and unfamiliar. I rip a long strip of cloth from the hem of my tunic, my hands shaking so badly I can barely tie a knot.
He looks at me, amber eyes stunned, his chest still heaving. "It is nothing," he gasps, his voice raw. He looks from me to the dead Wudwose, and then back to me. His gaze is not angry. It is... awed. "You... you fought."
"You fought, too," I whisper, my voice thick. I press the wad of cloth against his bleeding shoulder, trying to apply pressure. His skin is hot, radiating a furnace-like heat. My small, warm hands look pale and fragile against the hard, corded muscle of his arm. I work, my movements surprisingly steady, my mind falling into the simple, necessary task.
I feel his gaze on me, heavy and intense. It is not the look of a master to a pet, or even the possessive look of a male for a female. It is something new. It is the look a warrior gives another warrior. He is seeingme, not as a burden, not as a prize, but as a partner. The realization is more intimate than his kiss, more profound than his claim. It settles deep in my belly, a core of new, unshakeable strength.
He has been a monster. He has been a protector. He has been a baffled guest. Now, he is just Othic, and he is looking at me with respect.
He grips my free hand, his massive, calloused fingers closing over mine, stopping my work. His skin is rough, but his grip is gentle. He holds my hand, the one that still clutches my bloody dagger.
"You are Iron Tusk, Aurora."
The words are a low rumble, almost lost in the spray of the waterfall. They hit me with the force of a physical blow. The cold mist mists my face, but the heat from his hand, the heat from his words, is all I can feel.
Iron Tusk.
It is his clan. His soul. The name he carries with such pain and pride. He is not just praising me. He isnamingme. He is giving me his identity, his honor. The words settle in my chest, a weight I never thought I could bear, a heat I never thought I could possess. I am not just a survivor. I am not just his mate.
I look at him, at this impossible, massive creature who has dragged me from hell, and I feel a fierce, protective surge that is as strong as his own.
"I am your clan, Othic," I whisper, my voice shaking but fierce. I meet his gaze, and I do not look away. "I will not hide while you die for me."
I watch him stare at me, his smoldering eyes warring with emotions I cannot name—pride, shock, and a fierce, raw possession that makes my belly tighten. But the possession is different now. It is not for athing. It is for apartner. He finally nods, a single, sharp dip of his chin. The certainty in that small movement seals the pact.
I finish the bandage, my movements now sure and practiced. I pull the knot tight, and his muscle barely flinches. Thesoundof the waterfall is no longer a trap. It is just water. I am breathing, and he is breathing beside me. We are alive.
I am his mate. And I am his partner.
He grunts, a sound of grim acceptance, and pushes himself off the wall. He is no longer the dazed victim. He is the Tusk again. He stalks to the dead Wudwose, his boots heavy on the stone. He plants a boot on the creature's matted back and yanksthe slaver's sword free. Thesoundof the blade pulling from the bone is a wet, sickeningshluck.
He does not wince. He does not look away. He wipes the black, oily blood on the monster's matted hide, his movements economical and brutal. He sheathes the blade at his hip. He just looks at me, his gaze clear and hard, all awe replaced by the grim reality of what comes next. He sees my dagger, still in my hand, and nods.
"Keep your blade sharp," he rumbles. "The Dark Market will be worse."
He turns and walks out of the dead-end clearing. This time, I do not have to run to keep up. This time, he waits for me.
I wipe my own blade on the edge of my boot, my hand steady.
I slide it into the sheath at my hip and fall into step beside him, a true, two-person war party, leaving the dead beast behind.
25
OTHIC
Istop at the crest of the ridge, pulling Aurora back into the shadow of a gnarled, black-barked tree. Below us, the Dark Market is a living wound in the earth. It is a sprawling, roaring rat’s lair of filthy tents, rickety shacks, and iron cages, all built into the weeping walls of a massive ravine. Rickety rope bridges span the chasm, connecting clusters of hovels, and the "streets" at the bottom are a churning river of mud and bodies.
This place is a cesspit. A thousand times worse than Eelry.
I feel Aurora freeze beside me, her breath catching in a small, terrified gasp. Her fear is a sharp, sweet spike in the foul air, and my protective instincts roar. I must protect her. But down there, protection looks like ownership. A lone human female walking free is not just prey; she is an invitation, a weakness to be exploited. Aslave, however, is just property. She will be ignored.
She cannot walk in as my equal. She must walk in as my property. It is the only way.
I turn to her, my jaw tight. "We wait for dusk. Then we go in." She nods, her eyes wide, fixed on the horror below. "We need a story. I am ad-famorc, a raider. I am here to sell... my catch." I look at her, letting the meaning settle, my voice dropping intothe harsh, guttural rumble I used at Privis's estate. "You are the catch."
I see her understand. The words land like a slap, and I watch her swallow, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic, trapped bird. I see the shadow of Privis, of the cage, pass over her face. The gentle builder from the Scildborg is gone. In his place is the Tusk, his face a hard, unreadable mask of granite.
