Reagan snarled, grabbing the man by the cloak, his fist slamming into Zarren’s face once more. Blood mixed with spit dripped from his slack mouth. The shorter one averted his eyes, visibly shrinking.
“Perhaps I’ll do the Barrows a favour and rid this estate of worthless scum like you three,” Reagan growled.
A sickening crack followed, the sound of snapping bones. All three of them screamed. The bald one staggered back, clutching his bitten shoulder and cursing. The younger one and Zarren doubled over, gasping and wailing in pain.
Reagan had broken them all at the same time.
“Now,” he said, his voice steeped in violence, each word a promise of further suffering, “apologise to her. That’s your only chance. You have five seconds.”
He no longer looked like the discerning, canny man who had negotiated for his estate. This version of him was ruthless. I knew he would not leave them whole.
The youngest one was the first to comply. Fear etched into every line of his face, he looked between Reagan and me as he stammered, “I—I’m sorry, milady.”
Reagan’s gaze shifted to the bald man. Waiting.
The man glared at me with resentment but growled, “Apologies, milady.”
Zarren tried to sneer but descended into another violent coughing fit, each rasp rattling his frame. He collapsed forward, his hands slipping on the slick ground.
“Last chance, Scion,” Reagan said, his voice low and deadly as he fixed his eyes on the fallen mage. “Apologise to her.”
The man coughed insistently, and I finally understood what Reagan was doing. Only to him. His arms were out of his cloak, covered in blisters that bled continuously over the cobblestones.
It was the slow death Reagan would go for, and Zarren seemed to know it, too. How could he not give up his pride? Because I was human?
At last, Zarren lifted a bloody hand from the ground.
“Are you ready to say sorry?” Reagan asked low.
“Yes,” he mouthed, the sound barely audible. Zarren struggled to lift his face off the ground, but he managed to look where I stood, his skin full of blisters. “S...sorry.”
I couldn’t discern what I felt, only the nausea in my stomach as I watched him bleed. Maybe shock. Dismay.
“That is better,” Reagan said, his voice clipped. “But it won’t save you.”
I watched Zarren’s eyes round with panic.
A snap echoed, and I winced. A husky plea tore from the man’s mouth, as if he were trying to apologise again. The younger one shut his eyes and turned his face aside.
Another snap. He was going to kill him anyway.
I rushed forward, coming to Reagan’s side. “Stop. You don’t need to do this.”
My hand bunched in his cloak. I wasn’t doing it for the others’ benefit. I wanted him to see that.
“Reagan,” I said louder, trying to turn him toward me. “Stop.”
“He deserves this.” Reagan scowled, finally meeting my eyes. “I saw him. You can’t expect me to let him go.”
“I don’t need this. Neither do you. This will cost you,” I murmured so only he could hear it. “Self-restraint is a wise man’s trait.”
For a moment, I thought I had angered him so badly that I had made things worse. He glared at me, pressing his lips with trembling effort, the line of his jaw locked in a way that could have broken teeth. He closed his eyes and turned to the men on their knees.
A loud gasp escaped Zarren, followed by a cough, as if he were able to draw in a breath again.
“You are lucky,” Reagan snarled. “Battle mages will come for you. I hope you can make it until they arrive.”
He turned to me, a storm of emotions in his gaze. Rage. Doubt. Sorrow. His hand stretched toward me, hesitant, as though I might pull away.
