Alaric didn’t go for it.
Instead, he used his weight, leaning his body against the attacker’s, dragging him down. “Give me the blade,” he said, voice hoarse. I scrambled, grabbed it, and tossed it toward him.
He caught it in one hand, and the moment the assassin reached up, Alaric slammed the hilt into the man’s temple. Once. Twice.
“Stop!” I exclaimed. One more hit and he’d kill the man.
“I’ll kill you,” Alaric growled, his tone raw. “I should kill you.”
My feet moved of their own accord and I placed my hand on Alaric’s arm. There was no way I could pry his fingers off the knife, or even try to move his arm away.
I had to use my voice.
“Please,” I said. “Please let him go–”
“He would’ve killed you. Or me. Or both of us.” Alaric didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the man beneath him. The whaler seethed with fury.
“Alaric.” My voice was firm, but gentle. “This isn’t right. This isn’t who you are.” Who was I to say such a thing? He was a stranger to me, yet… somehow, deep inside, I knew there had to be some good. Even though I despised whalers, and should despise Alaric out of them all, I knew there was more to him.
There was more to everyone, except me, I supposed.
The man’s eyes were wide, darting between myself and Alaric. My hand slid down to the whaler’s wrist, my fingers curling around his. “Let him go.”
Alaric closed his eyes, just for a moment. Then he growled. “Who do you work for?”
“Corallure—“
“You’re lying and you know it. The king has no such assassin ships.Who do you work for?”
Fear pooled in the man’s eyes. “I swore I’d never say.”
“Then better to be silent,” Alaric threatened, moving the blade to the man’s neck.
“Alaric,” I warned. He shoved the assassin. “Get out,” he said. “Don’t ever show your face again or Iwillkill you next time.” And just like that, the man scrambled out into the rain, leaving us in a thick tension.
Silence fell. The only sound left was Alaric’s raggedbreathing, the soft crackle of the fire, and the taro chunks still bubbling on the hearth as if nothing had happened.
I knelt beside him, hands trembling, reaching for his side. Blood. Too much blood. “Alaric, you're hurt?—”
He didn’t look at me. Just stared down at the floor, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something I couldn’t name.
“Now you know,” he murmured. “No one touches you.”
Then he slumped forward. My heart raced.
Help him, Malia!
For the amount of pain he must’ve been experiencing, he kept his emotions in check. He didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t even moan. Instead, he grit his teeth, his jaw set, his fists curled. I quickly helped him up.
“We have to stitch it back up,” I said, and he allowed me to guide him back to the settee. If we didn’t contain his wound, he might lose too much blood and then… well…
Don’t think like that,I told myself, both annoyed and amused that I cared so much.
I shuddered as I grabbed my needle and thread. “Who was that?” I asked after a moment of silence.
Alaric watched me, his eyes going between my face and the needle. His body was tense, but I couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t relaxed from the adrenaline-packed encounter. My own fingers were slightly shaking, and it took all my concentration to see where the stitches had burst.
“He was the assassin from the ship. The ship bore Corallure’s coat of arms.” He grimaced as I worked. I was not one to get squeamish at the sight of blood or wounds, but, at this rate that the whaler was going, I might just start.
