to kick him to the fractured road. The next one comes at me with bare knuckles. He’s faster, but he can’t connect when my fist is already making contact with his jaw. He stumbles back, seemingly startled from the blow. I’d hoped to knock him out. Am I losing my touch?
I try it again with the next assailant, and he goes down in a heap. Still got it.
Beth is yelling behind me, trying to explain that I’m not a slaver, but they don’t listen. Their blood is still up, and the fight inside them has been brewing their whole lives. I can’t blame them, but when the ring around me begins to grow, I don’t know if I can get us out of this situation without loss of life. They won’t take Beth from me. I don’t care who they think I am. They will not touch my mate.
Three rush me at once, I duck and sweep my leg across their ankles, dropping them in a tangle as I stand and back up a few paces.
The next group—at least a dozen lesser fae—approaches, murder in their eyes.
“He’s not bad. He’s not a slaver! Listen to me!” Beth’s voice is shrill to the point of panic.
They don’t stop, and they won’t—not until I’m dead. I crouch and wait for them to strike.
“I’m telling you he’s my mate!”
They stop.
I turn. My feral roars with delight, and I fill with warmth at her declaration. Another piece of our bond clicks into place. She is mine as I am hers. No one can utter those words without the seal of magic. I can feel it now, a gold thread tying us tighter. If she’d spoken false, she’d be burning right now, the mark of the liar etched over her heart by the most primal of all magic. But she doesn’t suffer. She spoke true. The feral roars again, and I join it, my yell rising into the night.
She points at me. “See? This one right here. He’s my mate. We’re mated, okay?”
The male nearest us moves closer, his bald pate marked with concentric black circles. Slave bands.
I pity him, but I do not underestimate him. A growl pours from me, the feral ready to rise and rip his throat out.
He doesn’t move again, though he stares at Beth with too direct a gaze. “You bear no claiming mark.”
She points to the starry sky. “It’s dark.”
He narrows his eyes.
She clears her throat and adds, “And he marked me in a very special area if you know what I mean, and I’m pretty sure you do given the fact you are now staring right at my lady bits this very second.”
“Don’t look at her.” I move to block his view.
“Mated to one of them?” Then he shifts his gaze to me with nothing short of malice. “You lord over us, abuse us, murder us, do as you will with us our whole lives, then take one of our own for yourself?” He spits.
“I don’t want to kill you.” My fangs lengthen, the feral begging to come out to play. “But I will do whatever I must to defend my mate.”
“Kill us?” He looks around at the mass of slaves. “You’re the one going to the Ancestors tonight.”
“No.” A gruff voice, followed by a familiar stomping, sounds from the back of the throng.
The slaves part for Parnon.
“I don’t like this high fae very much.” Parnon stops beside me and turns to face the slaves.
“Not helping,” Beth chirps.
He makes a hmph sound. “I don’t like him, but he is not an enemy. He is a friend of Silmaran. A friend of the rebellion.”
That’s the most I’ve heard him say all at one time. I keep my gaze on the slave with the bands on his head.
He seems to mull over the price of continuing with his plan, then says, “This high fae is no friend of mine.”
“I will kill you now.” Parnon says it so simply, as if stating a fact as banal as ‘the Red Plains are hot.’ He brings up his enormous fists.
“Here we go,” Beth groans.
“No.” Another voice erupts from the crowd. This one familiar, too.
Silmaran emerges, one eyebrow up as she surveys the scene. “I was about to give a speech but figured it might be more fun to see what captured the attention of half my audience.”
“Silmaran.” The lead instigator drops to a knee and bows his head. Then the rest of the slaves follow, all of them bowing to their leader.
“No, friends.”