For a moment, Martin didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His face was a mask, utterly blank, and in that blankness she saw something terrifying—the complete absence of the human connection she’d been trying to appeal to.
Then the mask shattered.
“You bitch.”
His hand came up, fast and vicious, aimed at her face?—
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rhyx’s hand moved before conscious thought could catch up.
One moment Martin’s palm was arcing towards Alina’s face, knuckles white with the force of the intended blow. The next, those pale human fingers were trapped in Rhyx’s grip, bones grinding together beneath golden scales as he squeezed just hard enough to stop the motion dead.
No one touches her.
The thought blazed through him like wildfire, burning away every pretense of civility, every careful restraint he’d been maintaining for Alina’s sake. This male—this weak, arrogant, pathetic male—had tried to strike his mate.
Martin’s face went white. His mouth opened, working soundlessly, and Rhyx could smell the sharp chemical tang of fear suddenly flooding his body. The overpowering cologne couldn’t mask it. Nothing could mask it. Fear had a scent that transcended species, and Martin reeked of it now.
Good.
“You should not have done that.” Rhyx kept his voice level, controlled, even as fury pounded through his veins like molten metal. He could feel his pulse in his temples, in his throat, in the tight grip of his fingers around Martin’s trapped hand. “You should not have even thought of doing that.”
“L-let go of me?—”
“Why?” He tightened his grip incrementally, felt the small bones shift beneath the skin. Martin whimpered. “You would have struck my mate. I should break every bone in your body.”
“Rhyx.” Alina’s voice, strained but steady. “Rhyx, don’t?—”
“I know.” He didn’t look at her—couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the threat. “I know, Alina.”
But knowing and doing were different things. The rage was still there, still burning, demanding that he make this male pay for his presumption. In the before times, such an insult would have been answered with blood. With death. Challenges to a bonded pair were answered absolutely, without mercy or quarter, because mercy only invited future challenges.
This is not the before times.
He forced his fingers to loosen. Forced himself to release Martin’s hand, even though every instinct screamed at him to crush it into pulp.
Martin stumbled backward, cradling his hand against his chest. His face was still white, but something was changing in his expression—the fear giving way to calculation, to the cold assessment of a predator who’d been momentarily outmatched.
“Guards.” His voice cracked on the first syllable, but he pushed through it. “Take him. Alive or dead—I don’t care anymore.”
The two armed men had been frozen during the confrontation, clearly uncertain how to respond to a situation that had escalated so far beyond their training. But Martin’s order galvanized them. Weapons came up, targeting systems locking onto Rhyx’s chest.
“Stop!” Alina’s voice was harsh with terror, cracking on the word. She threw herself forward, trying to place her body between Rhyx and the guards. “Don’t hurt him! Please?—”
No.
Something snapped inside him.
He moved.
The first guard was still trying to adjust his aim when Rhyx’s hand closed around the barrel of his weapon, wrenching it aside with enough force to dislocate the man’s shoulder. The guard screamed, but Rhyx was already past him, already reaching for the second threat. His fist connected with the man’s helmet, shattering the visor and sending him crashing backward into the rocky ground.
The first guard was fumbling for a sidearm with his good hand. Rhyx spun, caught the weapon before it could clear its holster, and drove his elbow into the man’s jaw. The crack of bone was audible even through the thin Martian atmosphere.
Both guards lay motionless on the red dust.
Swift. Decisive. Clean.
