Saga blinked in recognition. This man was no stranger—she’d met him before in the red room. Trepidation crept down her spine as Saga backed away. “You’re Oleg’s interpreter.”
He bowed mockingly before taking a menacing step forward. There was no mistaking the malice in his expression; the sinister gleam in his eye. This man was at least a head taller than Saga, and her gaze darted to his battle belt, where half a dozen blades were sheathed.
“What do you want?” she demanded, letting her own blade slide down her sleeve and drop into her palm.
She brandished the dagger, but the man only chuckled, taking another threatening step forward. Saga took one back, and her spine hit a wall. But as the scent of an unwashed body met her nose and a thick forearm wrapped around her collarbone, she understood this was not a wall, but another warrior.
A dozen more forms coalesced from the shadows, encircling her, and a sick feeling built inside Saga. Kassandr hadn’t left her door unattended. Hadn’t brought her here to see the gallery.
These men hadluredher here.
Whether the gallery had been selected intentionally or by accident, Saga could not say. Panic struck her like a violent storm, nausea churning as the air was stolen from her chest. She yearned for the safety of her room—to be locked back in her cage. Her hands throbbed in searing memory. Trapped. She was trapped. Surrounded.
You deserve to be punished,rang Magnus’s voice. The sizzle of flesh. Saga’s ragged screams. The bears branded into her flesh. Again. It was happening all over again, but this time, she’d pay with her life.
“Oleg wishes for you to know,” said the interpreter in stunted Íseldurian, “that your corpse shall be strung from the walls for the birds to feast upon.”
But Saga scarcely heard him. The room was spinning, her heart pounding viciously, and all she could do was try to hold on as panic thrashed through her.
“Have you nothing to say?” snarled the man, his eyes flashing a feline yellow. “You may choose now, outsider. Death by sword or by claw.”
Saga choked out a dry laugh, and in a moment of pure insanity, she wished Kassandr were here, so she could tell him how wrong he was.See?she’d say.You took me here to keep me safe! Where is my safety, Kassandr?How, in her last moments alive, could she dwell on such a petty thing?
Distantly, she heard a flurry of confused Zagadkian, but it was secondary to her desperate need for air. The man who’d held her pinned to his chest had loosened his grip. This should be her chanceto get free—to fight for her life—but all Saga could do was sway on her feet, choking for breath as her panic gripped tighter.
“What is wrong with you?” demanded the interpreter. When she could not reply, he said darkly, “I will choose for you, Íseldurian whore. Claw it will be.”
Through her warped vision, Saga saw tattoos shifting on pale skin, claws bursting through knuckles. Beige fur. Vibrant yellow eyes. A mountain cat. She sensed the others shifting forms around her, but didn’t dare tear her eyes from the feline.
Still, Saga could only swing her blade weakly as the enormous cat launched at her. An enormous weight collided with her chest, sending her crashing backward. Saga’s head struck the wooden floorboards as the feline’s full weight crushed what little air remained in her lungs. Claws pierced through her dress, gouging her skin, but Saga could only stare dazedly up at yellow eyes, angry as though he wanted her to fight back. It felt so strangely distant—like she was not even in her own body, but looking down upon this savage scene from above.
But some deep-buried instinct—a last shred of self-preservation—reminded Saga that this was real. Reminded her that even as she’d been knocked to the floor, her knife had miraculously remained clasped in her hand. The beast bared its teeth, readying to bury them deep in her throat. Gathering the shredded tatters of her strength and resolve, Saga shoved the dagger upward.
The mountain cat yowled, reeling back. Blood slicked down the hilt protruding from its chest and spattered Saga’s face. She rolled onto her stomach and tried to wriggle away, but a scream tore from her throat as the beast’s claws raked through her shoulder.
The pain was scalding hot, burning through her panic and incinerating her fear. It yanked her back into her body, and Saga was suddenly clear-minded and viscerally aware. She’d wounded the mountain cat, but not mortally so, and she knew it would attack again.
Rolling onto her back, Saga braced against the pain and pulled the second knife from her bodice. The cat surged at her,dagger-sharp fangs glinting. Saga shoved the knife upward. Readied herself to meet her fate.
When fangs and claws did not tear into her flesh, Saga blinked in confusion. A high-pitched shriek soon broke into a gurgle. Bones crunched and blood slapped the floor.
And then a deep growl resonated in the air, scraping up the hairs on her arms and all down the back of her neck. And in that moment, Saga knew this creature was the alpha of them all, that which even the apex predators feared.
The room grew utterly still. Saga hardly dared breathe. Slowly, her gaze lifted. Met eyes of a brilliant green. His gray fur stood on end, and his snout was drawn into a snarl, revealing exquisitely sharp fangs dripping with blood. The beast’s limbs were grotesque and disproportionate—its forelegs long and angular, its back legs thickly muscled—and the spines along its back looked all wrong. But as Saga looked at Kassandr in his beast form, she could have wept with relief.
The beast leaped. Saga squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball, gasping as the wounds on her shoulder pulled. Howls and screeches she’d probably hear in her nightmares assaulted her, and Saga tried to find the dark, quiet place in the corner of her mind. But she couldn’t escape it. She heard it all—squelches and bones popping; animalistic whimpers and Kassandr’s answering roars. On it went, until she thought it would never end. But at some point, it must have.
A hand slid along her jaw, and Saga flinched away.
“They have hurt you.”
On a long, slow exhale, Saga opened her eyes. Back in his human form, Kassandr now knelt beside her. His eyes held the same wildness as the beast’s, his hair unkempt. A cut marred his cheek, and before she knew what she was doing, Saga’s fingertips were skimming along it. He leaned into her touch, a low rumble coming from deep in his chest.
“You’re hurt as well,” she heard herself say. She could scarcelyunderstand her own voice—it sounded raw and scraped. Had she been screaming that loudly?
“I am sorry, Winterwing. I was called away—a ruse, a stupid, foolish trick I should not have fallen for. And now you have paid the price.”
“They were going to string my corpse from the walls,” Saga murmured absently. A moment ago, she’d faced certain death, but now…now they were all dead. Before her, Kassandr vibrated with anger. He bowed his head, and her gaze traveled downward, then snapped rapidly back up.
