‘Twashim.
The one with the golden rings stacked in a line up his pointed ears, the one with the cloak as dark as night and a soul to match. The one who had so easily disarmed me and stolen that kiss from me.
My hair still ached from where he’d fisted it to hold me in place as he accomplished that disgusting feat, and I glowered in rage, remembering the feel of those large lips—those terrifying tusks—pressed against me.
His shoulder seeped blood and that sight made me feel a little better. Not safer, not at all, but mayhapprouder. I would die here today, for what I’d done…but I’d bloodied their chief, avenged myself for that kiss, and that would be enough.
I’ll never know how I caught his attention. Did I step forward to confront him? Or did the rest of the village, unwilling to be caught by his frown, step back? All I knew was I suddenly found myself standing alone, my fingers aching for my blade as the beast stalked closer.
He watched me.
“I am Vrogul Stormseeker.”
His words were pitched for the village, but his gaze never left mine.
“Chief of the Battleborn sea raiders of Islay. I have defeated ye.”
There were murmurings and tearful pleas behind me, but my frown grew as I stubbornly lifted my chin. He had not defeatedmejust because he’d knocked my blade to the ground. Let these villagers cower in fear. I would meet my death the way my father had always taught. Head on, eyes open.
The air between us crackled, and I knew even if my blade wasn’t now hanging fromhisbelt, I’d never be able to defend myself. I’d seen how fast these sea raiders could move. Or would he use his fists on me instead of a weapon? I didn’t allow my gaze to drop to his hands, but how well I remembered the horrible claws at the end of each of his fingers.
His right arm was tucked against his body, likely because of the wound I’d given him. But he could crush me with one hand. Was it any wonder my heart thudded, helpless, against my ribcage?
Nay, not helpless.
Just…not as strong as my enemy, damn me.
“Please, milord,” a woman wailed behind me. “Have pity on us!”
Finally, the huge beast dragged his gaze over my shoulder and I allowed myself to exhale in relief. His eyes were as dark as his cloak, dark as the kilt he wore.
I shivered.
Another of the weak villagers called out, “Leave us our stores, milord, to get us through the winter!”
And yet another: “Leave my daughters! They are too young for your lecherous uses!”
I saw the beast’s brow rise, and one side of those cruel lips twisted mockingly.
“What uses would my men have for yer daughters?”
His low voice was deceptively mild.
“Ye think we would pin them down on the beach and fook them? Each of us slaking our needs in their unwilling cunnies?”
More than one voice rose in a wail of denial and fear. Was I the only one to see the way some of our attackers’ lips wrinkled in disgust?
“Please, milord! I am newly married!” came one tearful plea, while a male called out, “You’ll have to kill me first!”
“Or mayhap…”
The monster—Stormseeker—tipped his head in what I thought was supposed to be consideration, although it appeared almost mocking, as his dark gaze skipped across the crowd.
“Mayhap we can make do with only onetribute.”
On that word—that hateful, gut-wrenching word—his gaze landed onme.
I swallowed, seeing the truth of my fate in his eyes.
