Alpha Warriors of The Cause - Tamara Rose Blodgett Page 0,11

breath escapes him, and he hisses in pain. His gaze lands on Slade, who finally sucks in much-needed oxygen.

“Come Slade, help me purge these wretched manacles from my body.”

Slade opens and closes his mouth like a beached fish. He suddenly realizes why metal is not allowed in the jump.

The wrist and ankle shackles are now embedded in Gunnar's skin. The more prudent question is why Gunnar is here at all.

Slade retreats a step, folding his arms. “What have you done?”

Gunnar smiles despite his obvious agony. “You didn't really think I believed that nonsense about doing the honorable thing, did you?”

Actually, Slade had not really believed such a thing was possible.

Dimitri assured Slade that Gunnar could do nothing while bound in metal, almost as though he had fey blood.

But fey do not exist on One. That is another sector. Jumping requires that no metal be involved in the transition. Any fool understands that.

Traveling with metal speaks to Gunnar's desperation as well as his proficiency for jumping.

“Are you with me?” Gunnar asks.

Not really. Slade shakes his head, restating the obvious, “You are not camouflaged, and have manacles embedded inside your body.”

Slade looks over the damage. The manacles present like partially manifested tumors at his wrists and ankles.

Gunnar grimaces. “You have knives. Don't be a weak kitten; slice them out.”

Slade draws his dagger slowly.

His heart says to kill this insane warrior who is so buried in his own grief over the death of his Lucinda that he is unable to live in Bloodling society. He’s been incarcerated for twenty years—what life does he have anyway?

Moving toward Gunnar, Slade casts a furtive glance around him. He sees nothing but the deepness of woods.

Satisfied with his superficial perusal, Slade carefully sets down his blade. Gunnar's deep eyes are shadowed pockets in his face, glittering darkly at his every move, and Slade knows to execute extreme caution.

He unhooks the belt from his weapons and hands it silently to Gunnar. He takes it, his chains rattling against the cuffs where they protrude from his flesh, and places the meaty part of the leather between his teeth. His fangs don't lengthen, probably due to anticipation of what's to come.

Slade marvels at Gunnar's bravery.

“Dimitri will seek your death upon our return,” Slade states, the blade standing between them.

His eyes slim to slits. “Let him try,” is Gunnar's garbled response.

Their gazes lock, and Gunnar nods in encouragement, sinking his teeth into the tooled leather belt.

Slade's weapon is as sharp as he remembers. Ceramic is somewhat lighter than metal, and he carries this with him always, never imagining it would be used for a hopping excursion or an impromptu surgery.

He excises the first manacle, a mess of sinew, blood, and muscle. Gunnar's forearm is left in ruins.

He groans, his eyes leaking tears of frustrated agony.

Slade moves to Gunnar’s left arm, where the metal has less cruelly adhered. Only a thin coat of flesh covers the metal. It slices away easily, and Slade tosses the cuffs aside. They land loudly in a gore-soaked pile on the spongy forest floor.

Gunnar passes out during the incision at his second ankle. His great body eases, and the belt falls from his slack mouth.

Slade presses his blade to Gunnar's neck as he lies in the sleep of the grievously wounded.

Murdering him would be simpler.

He could end Gunnar's agony over Lucinda's death at the hands of the nightlopers.

Gunnar would never face Dimitri’s punishment.

A thin red line appears beneath the serrated ceramic blade.

I cannot kill Beth's father.

Slade lifts the blade from Gunnar's throat, wiping blood and tissue from the smooth surface. He sheathes it on his weapons belt.

He takes a shaky inhale and attaches the belt to his body.

Gunnar's breathing comes even and deep. Slade watches as the Bloodling’s body fills in the deep gouges caused by the metal.

Slade waits.

After an hour passes, Gunnar's eyes slowly open. His flesh has filled and repaired, but horrible butchering scars remain.

Slade and Gunnar gaze at each other for a handful of seconds.

“Blood,” Gunnar croaks.

Slade nods. After that many wounds, it would take three nightlopers to set him to rights.

That was the number of Slade's victims after his battle with Ryan.

“We can't kill the papiliones. Our wounds are a signature to who we are.”

Gunnar stands slowly, stretching in the same way Slade did when he first arrived. He swings in Slade's direction. “Agreed.”

“We shall hunt, feed, and close their wounds as we put them in thrall,” Gunnar says indifferently.

“Thrall may not work in this sector.”

Gunnar smirks. “I've never met a Ten who