Scoffing at her use of lower-class contractions, Loren unsheathed his new blade and dragged it down the length of hers, relishing the sound of metal shrieking. “I look forward to winning.”
Loren would never admit his surprise at the barrage of attacks Ariadne rained down on him after that. He blocked, parried, and struck back. To her credit, she met each of his own swings without buckling. She stepped to the side, circling him like any good swordsman would, and he followed suit, turning as they moved together.
It thrilled him, really, to have such passion between them. The line between love and hate was so fine, so delicate, that he did not care if each of her attempts to break through his defenses was out of the latter. The former would come with time—once he broke her down and shaped her into his perfect Caersan woman.
Obedient.
Submissive.
Doting.
Unable to hide his growing glee, Loren grinned as she pulled a dagger from a holster on her thigh. The sword lowered a fraction as she divided her strength between the two weapons, and she adjusted her stance to one specifically for dually wielding blades. Someone had taught her well.
Again, Ariadne lunged forward, their swords cracking together. She whipped her dagger hand forward, and the blade slipped across his cheek. Warmth dripped from the wound. No matter. It would heal shortly.
A fire blazed in her eyes as she watched the blood leak from the wound she inflicted. If anything, it fueled him more. But allowing her to draw first blood was, perhaps, the last thing he wanted. She would want to hold that over him for years to come, so putting her in her place quickly would ensure she did not.
“Sharp claws, my pet.” Loren brushed his palm across his cheek, surprised by the pain that lingered there.
Ariadne’s gaze flickered over his shoulder towards the stairs from which they had come. Something akin to hope flared there, but he dared not turn to look at what she saw. Instead, he swept his sword in an arc, forcing her attention back on him—back where it belonged.
Then she did something that made Loren pull up short. She tossed the dagger across the floor to whoever stood behind him.
Nowthathe could not have.
Loren twisted, putting Ariadne to one side and the intruder on their little dance to the other. Stooping to pick up the short blade was Camilla, her russet eyes never leaving him as she rose back to her full height.
But it was the person who ran up the stairs behind Camilla that made Loren truly pause. Madan Antaire rounded the corner, followed by a dhemon Loren recognized but could notplace. The last, stepping calmly onto the landing to glare at him, was the disgusting half-breed in his horned form, AzrielfuckingTenebra.
“Put your sword down, Loren,” Ariadne said coolly, echoing his words from the study two floors below. “And crawl to me.”
Baring his fangs, Loren snarled, “Never,” and swung at her again.
Four pairs of feet thundered towards him. Ariadne blocked, twisting out of the way at the same moment a firm hand grabbed the length of his hair from behind and yanked his head back. He snarled as the tip of a blade cut across the back of his neck at the same moment his head snapped forward once more, hair suddenly released.
No.
Not released.
Cut.
Loren drew his own dagger and pivoted to who cut his hair. Of course he knew who would do such a thing. There was only one who would stoop so low as to go for aesthetics first. He stabbed with the short blade, sinking it deep into Camilla Dodd’s chest, just between those perfect breasts of hers.
A scream of fury echoed through the corridor. The sound did not come from the blonde Caersan who bared bloodied fangs as she lifted her chin to glare at him. Camilla’s body shook, and the dagger in her hand dropped to the ground with a clatter just before she mustered her final act of defiance. For the second time that night, and the last in her life, she spit in his face—only this time, it was all blood.
When next Loren moved, it was not because he saw the attack. No, he watched Camilla collapse to the floor. It was almost as though he couldsenseit coming. The fresh barrage of attacks from Ariadne were more than expected; they were predictable.
What he did not anticipate, however, was for the massive, unnamable dhemon to appear between Loren and Ariadne. He wielded a large ax yet somehow moved with the grace of a Caersan with a rapier.
That it was he, not Azriel, who stepped in only made Loren laugh. “Afraid, Tenebra? Sent your dog in to die for you instead?”
Understanding glimmered in the dhemon’s red eyes—something Loren did not think possible from such monsters. The ax swung. Loren ducked.
Madan appeared the next moment. He did not attack with a sword, but slashed at Loren’s exposed palm with yet another dagger. Poetic, really, for the vampire whose arm had to be amputated due to his time with Loren to attack his hand. A shame for him that such a minor wound would almost instantly heal.
“Is that all you have to offer, Antaire?” Loren spat, nodding to his short arm. “After all I gifted you?”
Oddly enough, Madan only grinned.
