from her.
“You can’t go down there. L-look at you. You know how Mother feels about keeping up appearances.” Peller had lost his smug tone. Now, he just sounded shocked—and a little scared. “Why are you growling like that? A-and why are your chest and fangs bigger than before? What’s that glowy thing around your body? You...you look even more like one of those savage Martians than usual. Father will be furious.”
Neither of them liked their father furious.
DaKar hesitated, but not because of his father. The pull to go to the girl, to find out why she was sad, built like a storm inside his gut, the pressure immense, almost painful. Except...Peller was right. He’d never been more aware of his ragged, worn clothes, castoffs from his half-brother that looked ridiculous on his too- big frame. Or his horns, fangs, wild hair, and dirty face and hands. Or the bruises that throbbed beneath his clothes. The élithe below were everything he was not, and she was one of them.
“You need to leave. Look what you did to the railing.” His half-brother’s constant whine buzzed like an irritating insect in the background. “I told you. You will embarrass us all.”
“Peller, shut up before I show you what a true savage can do.” The little shanus was a constant pain in his side, but he wasn’t the real cause of DaKar’s anger. That was reserved for himself.
He shouldn’t even hesitate. She needed him.
All his life he’d heard his blood was tainted, that his mother’s Martian Warlord heritage was barbaric and not befitting of their family—and neither was he. He’d pretended not to care, but up until tonight, he’d done his best to prove them wrong.
Tonight, he needed to put ego aside and gladly prove them right. She was what mattered.
He prowled forward once more, following the railing that led to the stairs, his gaze still locked on her.
“Stop right there.” Another voice, higher-pitched and far more dangerous. “You were told not to show your face tonight and you will do as you’re bid for once. Turn around and crawl back to your hole. You are not welcome here. I have a reputation to uphold.”
He didn’t have to turn around to know his stepmother loomed behind, her streaked gold and black hair piled high on her head like a coiled snake and laden with glittering danashe stones while her meticulously maintained body was draped in the finest of iridescent red fabrics that fastened tight to her body and billowed out behind her like the echoes of a scream. Nor did he have to look to know her face was pinched in a sour expression. Or that she was surrounded by the same four burly, blank-faced guards with thick forearms and brutish knuckles that followed her every command.
Most of the servants were kind to him, sneaking him food or patching up his injuries on the sly, sharing what they had, despite having very little. But not these four. They served his stepmother with pleasure, and her pleasure was his pain.
She hated him for having Martian blood and golden skin. She hated him for his father’s refusal to remove him from her home. Mostly, she hated him because he was his father’s firstborn, and élithe rules were very clear on lines of inheritance. Her younger son Peller would never inherit the full title, lands, and shares of the Starlight estate. Half-breed or not, freak or not, that right belonged to DaKar.
“I may not be welcome, but I am still going.” His stare still on the girl, he suddenly felt far older than his ten planetary rotations, his blood pumping with an ancient impulse that gave him the wisdom of a thousand Martian Warlord ancestors. “This does not concern you or your precious reputation.”
“Everything you do concerns me.” A slight pause, her voice sharp with excitement as she issued her next directive. “Teach this half-breed some respect.”
It hurt to turn away from the girl, his soul ripping like shredded fabric as the connection severed, but he couldn’t protect her if he was dead. His fangs lengthened. His chest expanded, the seams of Peller’s old clothes giving way.
He ducked, air hissing against his cheek as he barely dodged the meaty fist slamming toward his jaw. He was not so lucky with the next kick to his stomach. His bigger body was unfamiliar and awkward, making it harder to avoid the blows, while the roar of possession and protectiveness in his blood made focusing difficult. He had the instincts,