The first inmate’s grip falters.
I look up?—
And see him.
Seven feet of scaled muscle, black with scarlet striping that catches the light like fresh blood. Broad shoulders. Thick tail sweeping behind him with controlled balance. His posture is relaxed in a way that makes my skin go cold, because relaxed means he is not worried.
His eyes are deep crimson.
Clear.
Not glassy. Not blown. Not drugged.
Focused.
The first inmate snarls and lunges at him like a rabid dog.
The big Grolgath moves with terrifying economy.
One hand catches the inmate’s wrist mid-swing. The other drives a blade—some crude, brutal knife—up under the inmate’s jaw in a motion so smooth it looks rehearsed. There’s a wet sound, sharp and final, and the inmate collapses like his bones forgot how to hold him up.
I freeze, breath lodged in my throat.
The second inmate yelps—actually yelps, like the sight jolts something human back into him—and tries to scramble backward.
The Grolgath pivots, tail sweeping low.
It knocks the inmate’s legs out from under him.
The inmate hits the ground hard, skull cracking against rock with a sickening sound.
The third inmate, shard raised, charges with a broken scream.
The Grolgath steps forward and meets him with a backhand that sends him spinning into the wash wall. The shard flies from his hand. The inmate crumples, twitching, and then tries to crawl away on his elbows.
The Grolgath plants one heavy foot on the inmate’s back, pinning him.
He doesn’t kill him.
He looks at me instead.
And in that moment, with the dust still settling and the smell of blood thick in the air, my brain catches up enough to register what my body already knows:
I should be terrified of him.
I am.
But I’m also—ridiculously—relieved.
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs. My voice comes out hoarse.
“Who the hell are you?”
He regards me for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether my question deserves an answer.
Then he says, in a voice low and rough and oddly amused, “You’re welcome.”
I blink.
