course.” He tensed, his hand going to the head of the swordstick. Now that they were closer, he could see the grey cast to their skin and the bluish rips where flesh had begun to cleave from bone.
“Saber or rapier?”
“Saber. Archer gave it to me.”
Poppy gave a tight smile. “I think I love that man.”
He’d have to address that remark later, for the thugs chose that moment to attack. He pulled his sword free with a ring of steel as Poppy shouted, “Aim for the throat. Decapitation is the only way to stop them.” And then she was stepping in front of him to engage.
For a taut moment, he could only gape at his wife. She was poetry in motion, moving in a way he’d never before seen. One thug made a grab for her, and she struck the crook of his elbow with the blunt end of her fan. Two more moves, and his arm was broken. The fan snapped open, and Win realized that the slats were actually steel blades. With a whirl of red hair and blue skirts, the silver fan sliced through the thug’s neck, and his head hit the ground with a thunk.
It happened in the blink of an eye, and then Win had his hands full. Bloody hell but these things were fast, and strong. One struck him on the side of the head, and he saw stars. Win reacted, his training setting in. Then it was a blur. His body moved through the macabre dance without forethought. Kick, swing, duck, step, swing. He decapitated an undead, and then there were two.
Poppy moved behind him, working in tandem with her back to his so that they were a singular force. A blow to his guts had Win tasting bile. He punched back, his fist connecting with cold, dead flesh. Behind him, Poppy staggered as one thug smashed his massive hand into her. She did not make a sound, but black rage took hold of Winston. With a roar, he swung around, moving Poppy out of the way as his sword cleaved the undead’s head from its neck in one clean swipe.
He might have roared again in victory were it not for the shadow bearing down behind him. A knife headed straight for his heart. He had no time to move or block the blow. Win braced himself, but the hit never came. His wife snarled like an enraged cat and lashed out. Her slim arm deflected the hit. Another blow and she decapitated the thug with her clever fan.
And then it was over. Winston was battered. Every inch of him ached as he took in the carnage. Four undead lay sprawled on the ground. All were missing their heads.
His chest heaved as he straightened and looked at his wife. She was panting as well, her hair in a red tangle about her slim shoulders. A smear of blood marred her cheek, but the cut was shallow. She was glorious. He glanced about one more time, making certain they were well and truly alone. Nothing stirred.
“Are you harmed?” he asked. “Did they hit…”
“The child is fine.” She smoothed hair back from her face. “You?”
“Not yet.” His sword clattered to the ground. He took the two steps to close the distance between them and hauled her against him. Lust slammed into him at the touch of his lips to hers. Hard enough to make him stagger, taking her with him. He fell against the brick wall of the overpass as he cupped her cheeks with his hands and devoured her mouth, needing to touch her, taste her, more than he needed to breathe. This was what he’d been missing. This was what made him feel whole. Her fingers tangled in his hair and tugged hard as she kissed him back, biting his lower lip.
His head spun with want, and he took a shuddering breath to ease the tightness in his chest. He had to stop. He knew this. But for the moment, he closed his eyes and simply reveled in her. His tongue played with hers, a slow, torturous slip-slide, and he groaned. Then he let her go. And it was painful.
They panted for a moment, and her eyes were wide with surprise and wonder as he tenderly caressed her bloodied cheek.
“What was that for?” she said after a moment.
He rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip and told her the truth. “For being alive.”
With the heat of battle still running riot through her veins, Poppy’s