When she stepped one way, I stepped the other. We circled each other like the sun chased the moon at dawn. Lyra didn’t speak, merely pressed the knife into her skin, drawing a stream of blood that dripped down her slender throat.

I stopped my prowl, grin fading. Spill another drop, woman, and you’ll damn your people to the hells below.

Baldur chuckled through his explanation of my threat, but it only deepened the burn of hate in her eyes. Enough chatter.

In three strides, I crossed the floor between us, only pausing when she drew in a sharp breath of air. Her stun caused her to press the blade deeper into her flesh, adding another drop of blood to the smooth center of her throat.

My gaze followed the descent, unblinking, until it cascaded between the cleft of her breasts.

To her favor, she didn’t flush or look scandalized when our eyes met. “That will be the only look you shall ever receive, Sentry Ashwood.”

She studied me, no doubt cataloging every scar, every twitch of my face. I, in turn, committed the small dust of freckles over her slender nose, tells of fear carved into her brow, her mouth, almost like each one was a forgotten memory.

Deep in the dregs of my soul grew an unnerving desire to keep her close.

“Take me,” she said, voice low and rough, “and leave the rest. I am not asking.”

A grumble of annoyance rolled out from my chest. I pressed a hooked finger against the side of my head and twisted, like tightening a bolt in a hinge.

“He says you are foolish,” Baldur told her.

Her lips parted to spit back a reply, but I moved like a spark catching flame.

My fingers curled around her wrist, yanking the knife away from her throat. Seasons of training to drift in the shadows taught me to move as one, unseen until it was too late.

I peeled the knife from her grip, blade clattering on the floorboards, then pinned her body to my chest. One arm wrapped around her, keeping her arms tucked at her sides. With my free hand, I signaled to the Stav to move once more.

To the woman, I leaned in as though I could whisper. I did in my way, gently writing out my words against her cheek, taking a bit of twisted delight in the way she held her breath under my touch.

Say your goodbyes.

9

Lyra

Boots scuffled over the longhouse floor. Sobs of my people split through my chest in an ache that felt like it would never heal—sharp as a shard of steel.

Night mists thickened the nearer we drew to the docks. I stumbled, but Ashwood refused to let me fall, keeping me upright, no matter how much my toes snagged across the pebbled shoreline.