“That entire act was transparent, Spitfire. Sad, even.”
“What part exactly?”
“Having those men approach you one at a time. You don’t think I saw right through that little act? Wasn’t very creative, was it?” He keeps his sharp chin lifted as we walk, maintaining his dominant stance.
“You thought I orchestrated men approaching me?” I ask with a laugh, stopping dead in my tracks and opening my cloak to reveal my breasts plunging from my dress. “What part of my body makes you think I’d ever need to beg men to come crawling?”
Niklaus comes to a halt with me. And his angry eyes drop to my chest. One, two, three long moments pass, and he takes a deep, steadying breath. Still.Staring.
Victory floods my drunk brain.
His glazed stare flickers back up to my mocking expression.
“Do you want to see more of me?” I taunt with the sultriest voice I can manage.
Niklaus stiffens, dropping his line of sight back down to my chest. The frigid air pebbles my skin, causing my nipples to harden to fine points. And I know he can see it.
I take a dangerous, predatory step toward him. “You see? You’d crawl to taste me too.”
He snaps out of it, clenching his jaw, and crossing his arms.
“You think I’d ever touch you?” He lets out a bewildered laugh. “I can’t imagine any man getting hard for you, Spitfire. In fact…” He leans in, trying to intimidate me with his dwarfing height. “I’d rather fuck your mother.”
“Dezexez fir qasoi nexes.”
These words. That daunting, bone-chilling language is the only thing that could break our focus right now. Niklaus and I turn abruptly to a lanky man with a top hat limping from the shadows holding a cane with a wolf head on the handle. He wears a red jacket with gold tassels, black matte shoulder armor, and a smile too wide and crooked to be natural.
He looks like a…Ringmaster.
“This is a private conversation,” Niklaus tells the man.
“Duséaz Demechnef!”
We stay perfectly still.
No one speaks Old Alkadonian here.
And he’s not alone. Men in strange uniforms start approaching us from all around. In a slow, calculated formation, these Vexamen strangers surround us, whispering in Old Alkadonian.
And I hear them sayValdawell.
“We’re being targeted,” I whisper.
Niklaus spares me a quick side glance. We assess the odds as they close in. There are thirteen of them. It’s odd, I never once thought I’d need the combat training our parents and Uncle Warrose gave us. It seemed so silly. The time they came from was brutal, violent, chaotic. We’re privileged here. Safe. Comfortable.
One by one, we watch them unsheathe weapons. Shining glints of metal.
“Fuck,” Niklaus breathes. He doesn’t have his sword. Though I wouldn’t admit this to his face, the likeliness of Niklaus defeating all thirteen men is strong. He’sthatgood with a sword. The greatest of our generation, in fact. Although, many say he would not have been a match for Patient Thirteen. They say my father was the greatest swordsman to ever live.
Niklaus has worked half his life to prove them wrong.
“How drunk are you?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not seeing double,” I say, sobering up quickly.
We need my brother. His friends. There are too many of them. And we’re unarmed.
“I have your back. You have mine.” Niklaus looks down at me. It’s the first time we don’t make eye contact with bleeding hatred or tormenting amusement. Right now, we’re all each other has.
