“Let go of her!” Aiden shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the muttered threats of the men closing in on her. “The next man that lays a hand on her loses that hand.”
Nobody paid him any mind.
Angus yanked her toward him, unbalancing her. Another hand curled around her bicep, and when she pulled her arm free, the sleeve tore. Somebody grabbed her chin. Angus tugged on her braid harder, and pain splintered across her scalp. He was laughing, a wide grin splitting his face to reveal irregular, yellowed teeth. He pulled harder again, and this time she cried out and?—
Something silver flashed through the air, so quick she thought she had imagined it.
The hand dropped from her hair. Angus stumbled back, eyes wide. The others backed away too, all gawping at him in horror. He held up his arm, staring at the stump where his hand had been, blood gushing from the wound.
“I told ye,” Aiden hissed, holding down his bloody sword, “nae to touch her.”
19
The mob leader stared at his bloody arm in almost comical horror. His severed hand lay on the cobbles, half-submerged in a puddle.
Aiden heard blood drip from the tip of his sword, landing somewhere beside his feet. His hand tightened on the hilt, knuckles whitening. His own words echoed in his head.
“I told ye nae to touch her.”
Rage still bubbled inside him, the scene seared in his mind. Those men crowding Hannah, pushing and pulling her. Tearing her dress, pulling her hair, laughing at her cries of pain. Oh, he was going to gut every last one of them if they laid another hand on her.
He shot her a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. She’d had the sense to retreat, putting her back against the wall once more.
Sensible lass. Daenae make a run for it just yet.
The mob leader opened his mouth and gave a long, bloodcurdling scream. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he crumbled like wet paper onto the cobblestones.
“Pathetic,” Aiden muttered, turning away.
He faced down the mob once more, this time at eye level with them. A man with a long, weaselly face seemed to be trying to catch his eye. Was that the second-in-command? Maybe.
Aiden met his eyes anyway, lifting his eyebrows. “Now, ye lot, listen up. He might survive if ye stop the bleeding and get him to a healer promptly. Here is yer chance to walk away. Take yer friend. Leave this behind. Never look or speak to Hannah Leon again, and I’ll let ye live.”
Silence greeted his pronouncement.
He swung his sword thoughtfully. The point came to within half an inch of the cobbles beneath his feet.
“I suppose the long and short of it is,” he continued, “what do ye value most? The life of yer friend and yer own lives, or revenge?”
More silence.
He glanced from face to face, and could almost hear the cogs ticking and whirring in their heads. Last of all, he met the eyes of the weaselly fellow, who was currently watching the mob leader slowly bleed out on the ground.
The weaselly fellow tensed, teeth clacking together. With asnick, he drew a chipped, rusty old short sword and lunged at Aiden with a thin roar.
“Probably should have seen that coming,” Aiden muttered tiredly, and swung his sword forward.
The weaselly man probably never realized that his head had been struck off his shoulders. He collapsed, his body thudding onto the cobbles.
As if something had been unleashed, the other men rushed forward, waving axes, clubs, blacksmithing tools—anything, really—trying and failing to hit Aiden. He dodged and weaved, ducking under blades and neatly sidestepping blows from heavier weapons.
The guards moved forward as one, using pikes and shields to force the men back toward the gates.
It was never a fight they could win.
About a dozen bodies lay on the ground by the time the men began to back away, eyeing Aiden with horror. One fellow lifted his hands warily.
“Ye had enough?” Aiden snarled, turning his head to spit out a mouthful of blood. A lucky fist had caught him across the mouth, splitting his lip. Aside from that, he was unscathed.
