Page 52 of The Ballad of the Vampire Prince

“Carver… what are you doing?” Rhianelle asks him in a small voice.

Is she acquainted with this foul person?

The little creature thrashes against the assassin’s grip in the hopes of getting a bit of attention from Rhianelle. If it is mercy he is expecting, he won’t be getting any. The elves have no love for the fae and their kind.

“We didn’t mean to trespass. I am Ymir and that is Emyr,” the stout creature explains frantically, fumbling for something in his satchel. “We lost our way from the Red Road.”

Carver snatches the envelope from his hand. The assassin’s mouth curls into a cruel smile.

“Look what we have here,” Carver muses, easing his foot from the pygmy boar slightly. “There is to be a wedding for Lord Dalton, the Castellan of Reírse Fortress. This old thing must be someone important to receive such a grand invite.”

“But—but… everyone is invited,” the gnome cries. “Spare us please.”

I cross my arms and lean against the oak tree to watch the spectacle.

“He is no one, a common folk attending a wedding. Let him be on his way,” she says, her voice firm.

I rarely hear that tone from her. A queen’s order.

“This pig spilled his guts over my shoe. One pays with their life for lesser crimes in Tiamat,” the male says in cruel amusement.

He raises his blade high to slaughter the animal under his boots.

In the fraction of a second before the butchery, I do feel an ounce of pity for these victims. But the strong will always devour the weak. Such is the nature of life. The Grimsbane’s cruelty does not surprise me.

It is expected of this wretched world.

What I do not expect is for my wife to grab his blade before it touches the small creature.

“Then be glad we are not in Tiamat,” Rhianelle whispers calmly, looking straight into the assassin’s eyes. “Let them go.”

I blink at the sight of blood.

Her blood.

Red and vibrant.

The male loses his hand before the first drop hits the forest floor.

Flame ignites low in my gut, blazing into an inferno the longer he is breathing. “What have you done to my wife?”

An inhuman sound leaves his throat as he stumbles to the forest floor, clutching his hand. His arm is mechanical and appears to be made of some kind of metallic prothesis.

No matter.

This male is finished.

“She’s the one who came between my knife and my target!” the dead elf reasons.

Maybe he’s right. Too bad for him I fucking hate it when people touch what is mine. He didn’t just touch, this fucker made her bleed.

The scent of her blood whetted my wrath into something sharp and lethal. Rage trembles through my body, I can barely breathe, I can barely think—

A soft hand latches onto my arm, gripping my hunting leather tight. “Svenn, don’t.”

I glance down to find Nel looking at me. Her eyes are pleading me to spare this low life. “He’s my uncle’s hire, just like Shade.”

This one is called Carver, is it?

---