I’d seen that tremor. I wasn’t buying her sangfroid. Also, she’d been angry enough to march upstairs and confront me before deciding I wasn’t worth the effort. She might not be physically hurt, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t traumatized.
I flexed my fingers and strode toward the kitchen as acid ate through my stomach. I needed blood and the release of violence. I’d shake them awake before claiming their pain. I’d kill them for what they’d tried to do.
“Where are you going?” Her tone was flat. “I already told you, they’re unconscious. Besides, it’s a bit late to act like a hero.” She returned her gaze to the window and the empty road outside. “You needn’t bother pretending you care what happens to me.”
I did care. Even though I shouldn’t. “I?—”
“Fuck.” She sprang from the window seat, landing in a crouch on the floor. “Get down.”
Half a second later, the window exploded into shards of glass, and someone knocked down the inn’s door.
Chapter
Thirty
HAVEN
The room went from empty to impossibly crowded in seconds. Full of men with swords, all of whom seemed determined to wet their steel with our blood. I called on Carron’s power, but I was drained from incapacitating the men in the hallway. Nothing happened.
The rose-hilt dagger in my boot wasn’t enough to protect us. Not when ten men, their features obscured by black masks, had us in their sights.
Using magic that didn’t tire me, I summoned swords and tossed one to Grayson, keeping one for myself.
“We don’t want you, Shield.” Even the rebels treated shields as lesser beings. “Unless you stand with him. If you do, you can die with him.”
Finally, some equity.
I lifted my sword.
“Get out of here. Now.” Grayson motioned toward the exit.
“No.”
“Just once, why don’t you do as you’re told?”
That didn’t deserve an answer.
Grayson and I fought back-to-back, shifting seamlessly to guard against the endless supply of men who wanted us dead.
The men I fought were bigger than me, but they weren’t faster. These weren’t trained soldiers—just rebels with more brute strength than skill. A parry. A thrust. The sickening feel of my blade sinking into flesh. I easily snuck past their crude defenses.
If only there weren’t so many of them.
Despite their numbers, I liked our chances. Until I saw him—the one hanging back, studying my movements. Unlike the others, he held his sword with practiced ease.
Grayson grunted and stumbled into me, interrupting our rhythm.
I barely avoided the slash of an attacker’s blade.
Fortunately, he left himself open, and my sword found his heart. He joined his friends on the floor.
“Grayson?”
He grunted again.
“Talk to me.” I countered the arc of a rebel’s sword.
“It’s bad.”
