I turn and face the Lokke. They’ve drawn close during my confrontation with Iasan, but still beyond the reach of my blade, which shows some little wisdom. Aside from their coloring, they do not look so alike. Breandan is a step closer, his hands empty and held, palms out, at his sides. He is a little taller than his clansman, broader of build, duller of eye. I doubt he has any Gift. His deep-voiced clansman, Gottar, looks more like their ancestors. Tall, lean, cold, and arrogant. I have no doubt he wields fire. I can see it dancing in his eyes.
I address the man I’m to mate. “I will take off my sword if you swear to hold it for my son. It’s his father’s second sword. He should have it when he grows into his fangs.”
Breandan holds out a meaty hand. “I swear it.”
I unbuckle the sword and offer it, pommel first, to him.
As soon as he takes it, my uncle steps forward. I see his blow coming and turn my face so it rings across my cheek instead of splitting flesh as he intended.
“You will obey your Alpha. You will cause no more trouble.”
I turn my face back to him, flick my eyes up and down his thick form. “I will obey my Alpha,” I swear.
And that is no lie. For until I see Morgan’s cold body, he is my Alpha, and none of these false, heartless men will ever be.