Page 37 of The Dead Saint

But he’d already said that, spoken the truth, and she’d denied it. Denied him. He’d protected her because the prince would skin him alive and leave him to rot in the sun on the outer wall of the Traveling City. That was all.

“I am not the monster here,” he said, voice flat, pointing at the corpse with his sword. “There is your monster.”

“You think just because you don’t look like one, you aren’t? You wear a human face. You pretend to be a person. You are the worst kind of monster.”

Something shifted inside him, slithering free of his soul, curling around the sudden pang of hurt and hiding it away. No, he wouldn’t let her words dig in, cling to him with claws of steel and iron. He would let anger replace it. He would let anger and disdain override this situation.

He stepped over the creature, stalking toward her, and she gasped. The sound thrilled him. He wanted her to be afraid, to obey him. He wanted her to be quiet and still, and maybe, just maybe, then she would disappear from his thoughts. Maybe then he would learn to slide a cool gaze past her without lingering, without stopping as his heart caught, stuttering.

He reached for her.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed.

“If you don’t wish to be touched, follow me, listen to my commands, and I won’t lay a finger on you.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re spoiled. You’ve lived your whole life protected in a temple. Worshipped as a living god. Do you really think you would survive out here? With those?” He pointed to the werewolf with his sword again, dark blood dripping from the blade.

“Better them than you!”

“Do you think so?” He stopped, considering her fierce expression, the hard set of her mouth and glint in her eyes. She was covered in blood—hair, face, body. The metallic scent would linger on her for days.

“Yes.”

A wolf howled, the sound climbing, spiraling higher until it cut off abruptly.

Sorcha spun in a circle, searching for the direction the call had come from. She glanced back at Adrian, an expression he couldn’t read flashing across her features, and then she bolted into the underbrush.

He didn’t hesitate, plunging after her and swearing under his breath.

* * *

Sorcha stopped abruptly at the edge of a clearing, her figure haloed the moonlight, a shadow haloed and held motionless.

An arrow of desire pierced him. To capture or claim her?

He didn’t think about it as he crashed into her, arms coming around her, clamping her to him in a fierce embrace. With her back pressed tight to his chest, her hands came up, squeezing his forearms with more strength than he’d expected—fingers digging into muscle. His heart pounded against his ribs, anger roiling in his gut.

She could have gotten away. She could have been attacked.

He closed his eyes, willing away the anger and fear, pulling in a deep breath to calm his mind and heart. Sorcha was small and warm against him, the top of her head resting below his jaw, her hair tickling his chin. Soft. Warm.

Even sticky with blood and sweaty, there was some underlying sweetness, whatever she’d washed her hair with last—a faint floral scent.

The urge to remove his gloves and stroke her hair was overwhelming. He wanted to touch her with his bare hands, run his fingers through her hair, cup her face. He inhaled sharply, surprised with the sudden rushing desire, the vividness of it all playing out in his head as he clutched her against him.

Sorcha’s hands fluttered against his hold, patting his arms, pulling at his gloved fingers. He thought she was trying to pry him free, wriggle from his grasp, but she wasn’t trying to pull away. She was trying to get his attention. He opened his eyes, seeing their surroundings for the first time, understanding what they’d almost stepped into.

In the bright moonlight, the clearing head was visible—the horror happening at its center plain. Two werewolves were eating what remained of a man. There was no way to know who it might have been. Nothing that would have hinted at an identity remained. The armor had been stripped, the hands gone, with most of a leg eaten. There was no face. No identify marks.

As they stood transfixed, one werewolf snapped at the other. The creatures snarled at each other, one tugging at the body, the other refusing to let go. The snarling grew louder. A yipping came from across the clearing, and then another howl. One of the creatures dropped the dead man long enough to howl. Then the two were fighting over their dinner, roaring, the sound deafening.

“Adrian,” Sorcha said, voice shaking, body trembling. “Adrian, please, let’s go.”

Adrian. A name. His name. But in her mouth, it sounded unrecognizable. She’d spoken to him grudgingly and never addressed him directly over the last few weeks. She’d never said his name. In surprise, his hold loosened.

Sorcha turned in his arms and buried her face in his chest, smearing blood across his leathers. He held her, so focused on the woman in his arms that he barely registered the snarling from the clearing. She curled into him, breathless in the dark.

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