Page 84 of What Lies Within Blood & Heirs

She slammed face-first into the dirt as the knee pressed hard into her upper back. Pinning her before her ankles, too, were clamped with sharp pressure.

She tried—so desperately tried—to fight it as a wave of unconsciousness settled. But her body pulsed with pain. Her lungs burned.

Then she caught a glimpse of the leather glove pressing into the dirt beside her face. The purple cloak pooled from his shoulder beside that. A purple cloak…

It took five rapid blinks for her to angle her neck and try to catch a better view of her captor, but a hand fisted her hair and slammed her face down.

It hurt. So badly did it hurt.

An animalistic growl tore from her throat, but she couldn’t fight him.

The darkened figure standing before the lake crouched down, lifted by her chin until her spinning focus captured his face, and leaned forward—so close they almost shared breath.

Alora spit directly in his disgusting face.

Bursts of dark laughter echoed around her, knotting her throat, which the male’s palm enclosed as he wiped away her spit with his glove. Still, he remained silent and lifted her until her feet dangled above the ground.

Strangled pleading gasps tore from her throat.

Four more sets of boots crunched the dirt beside the figure. Or was it five? Six?

She tried to blink, but her eyes closed from the lack of air, not opening on her command. Not until a palm smacked her cheek, knocking her to the dirt.

Alora fell on her side as blood seeped through a cut in her lip and poured from her nose.

A hand brushed over her death mark, which was concealed under fabric, and squeezed her upper arm to force her onto her back. Pinned now, her shackled wrists screamed in agony.

Groans crossed her bloody lips. It was all she could do. Groan through the pain and swirling vision as her sweater wrinkled beneath the leather glove tracing down her chest.

They were talking. Whoever they were. But she couldn’t concentrate. Her head felt like it’d been split open. And from the warmth trickling down the back of her head, she was certain it was.

A cold voice snickered, “Well. Aren’t you soverylucky?”

Something pinched her neck. Then ...

Darkness.

Pain seared through Alora’s neck, over the entire expanse of her back, and down to her ankles. And if she wasn’t being constantly tussled, maybe she could bear the discomfort. But the heavy steps of the horse, which they had slumped her over, shot torturous sparks through her shoulders.

Lungs on fire because of her crushing weight, she steadied a shaken breath through her nose, only to be met with a strongmale stench laced with the sweat of the horse, molded leather, and a mess of damp moss, grass, and bark.

It wasn’t Garrik.A sharp pain stabbed through her heart.

He wasn’t who she had followed for so long. For so far.

Through her sweater, she felt the warmth of a broad hand on her lower back, holding her in that horrendous position like a sack of wheat. Not soft or gentle. His fingers gripped mercilessly, digging into her fiery skin like daggers. Possessive. Demanding.

Where Garrik’s hands had been. Where he had claimed her and run his fingers.

But this touch. This male touching her ...

Bile burned her throat.Get your hands off me.She wanted to scream it. Take the sword sheathed to the male’s side and shove it through his disgusting throat, but then he’d know she was awake. And that couldn’t happen.

Not yet.

It took every ounce of strength in her to remain silent.

The element of surprise would be her only ally. Remain motionless. Allow them to think she was still unconscious while she gained as much information as she could. Once she conjured a plan, it would be easier to escape. If they didn’t have a purpose for her, surely she would have been killed … or worse by now.

---