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His eyes flashed up to mine, surprise clear in his slackened jaw. “You joined the Rite with your sister?”

Before I could reply, something rustled in the trees. Callum glanced over his shoulder. He muttered something that felt like a curse, then stood in a fluid motion, twisting toward whatever had made the noise, the dagger from his thigh now in his hand.

My breath caught.

Another person stepped into the clearing, seemingly out of the shadows themselves rather than the trees. The sleeveless tunic he wore was deep maroon with intricate scrollwork across the lapels in the same color, only visible with movement under the weak sunlight. His undershirt was black with wide arms like the shirts worn at Renaissance festivals, the cuffs buttoned closed just below his palms. He didn’t wear any weapons I could see, but my instincts screamed to keep as much distance between him and me as possible, a thousand times louder than every single person I’d met so far in this weird place.

“So the rumors are true,” the new man said in a cold, unfeeling voice. “And here I thought there was no possible way the bastard prince of Marish would participate in the Rite. He was too ‘morally pure’ for the last two, after all.”

Bastard prince. I stared at Callum’s back with wide eyes. A prince? That would explain the difference in presence between him and the man that chose Sloane.

“You know nothing of my decisions,” Callum said in a low voice that carried a violence I hadn’t heard before.

The new man rolled his eyes, his lips curling in a barely-there sneer. I pulled my head off my knee and wiped the last few tears from my cheeks, trying to keep conscious. His eyes caught on my movement, and then his entire body coiled in readiness. An eyebrow rose as he adjusted the sleeves of his undershirt.

“Move, Callum,” he said. His tone was darker, stronger. “I’ve found my prize.”

My blood ran cold, true fear closing off my throat and twisting around my heart. I’d seen that look before, had heard that tone, had witnessed them both too many times in the worst of the foster homes. It was impossible to mistake it for anything other than cruel, merciless intention.

This man would kill me—if not in body, then certainly in spirit and mind. He would play with me until I was nothing but his own toy, any semblance of my old self gone. Something wild lurked in his eyes, moving across them like a rumbling beast as the moment stretched.

“They are not prizes,” Callum hissed.

The other man scoffed and took a few leisurely steps closer to us. Callum adjusted his stance, angling himself so I was mostly blocked from view. I leaned around him to keep tabs on what was happening.

“That is exactly what they are,” the man spit. “Little petty prizes to keep us all from thinking too long about what was lost when the gods intervened. And yet here you are, still following the rules. How has that fared for you? Still stuck as second-best, enough for the frills but not for true power.”

The dig didn’t seem to hit the same as the one about me. Callum merely shook his head.

“Move on, Enoch,” Callum growled.

The other man tilted his head and pursed his lips. A dagger appeared in his hand, the metal changing, gold then blue then purple, as if it couldn’t decide what color it wanted to be. The hilt was simple, the blade lethal to even my untrained eye.

“No,” he said with uncaring precision. Like he was turning down an offering of dessert. “You’ve laid no claim on her. I have chosen, so move. I wish to know how she will scent when I mark her.”

Mark her? Why did that sound so sexual? I shuddered in abject disgust.

I tried to ease away from them both, terrified of getting cut on accident by either blade. Unfortunately, the numbness in my leg dissipated the moment I put a bit of pressure on it. A scream ripped up my throat as my arms collapsed, and I fell back into the mud.

Callum cursed again, that same word I didn’t understand.

A second dagger appeared in the air, and Enoch grabbed it with an ease that had my stomach tightening all over again, twisting over itself until it felt like it was trying to rip out of my body through my throat. Callum sheathed his own blade and pulled the long sword from his back. His gaze flicked over his shoulder, locking on me and then the ground, right where the small coin still lay in the mud.

“What a fascinating moment to have a backbone,” Enoch drawled, voice dripping with disdain. “Did the half-breed finally decide he wants to do something productive with his life? Finally realized the gods are so far removed they don’t give a damn what happens here?”

Callum didn’t seem concerned over the taunts, adjusting the sword as he moved a few inches in front of me.

He shook his head. “Move. On.”

Each word was a growl laced with warning.

Enoch snarled, then leaped forward so quickly I couldn’t really track him. Even without my head pounding like a club’s bass at midnight, the blur of movement would have been too fast. Callum was readier than me, his sword coming down and blocking the first set of blows with little effort. The sounds of their blades and snarls grew louder, overbearing. I forced myself back a few more feet, dragging my limp body with my elbows like a reverse army crawl until my head brushed the tree trunk. The movement jarred my head, hitting a spot I hadn’t realized was tender, and the world blurred to black for several long, terrifying seconds. There was a shout and the sound of something wet dripping. A soft touch on my shoulder had a scream ripping up my throat, broken and hoarse. I flailed, grabbing the first thing I touched—a branch I’d broken when I’d fallen, the end jagged. I tightened my grip on it until it bit into my skin.

Please not Enoch.

“Peace, omega.” Callum’s voice flowed over me, and a part of me wanted to weep with relief. The other was concerned over how quickly I was capitulating, just like Sloane. A gentle hand eased the stick from my death grip and then helped me back to sitting. The world came into blurry existence again, then shapes slowly solidified. Callum’s hair was disheveled, his pristine tunic now covered in blood, but his sword was again strapped to his back.

“Take my hand,” he said, a command in the words I didn’t want to fight.