Page 103 of Untethering Dark

Lifting his tormentor’s heart to his mouth, Astrid murmured sweetly, “Eat, Liebe. You need to regain your strength.”

Liebe. Tears streaked down his bony cheeks.

“Oh, Liebling.” She cupped his cheek, the press of her fingers cool and soothing, and so very real. “I’m here. The ritual worked.”

He leaned into her touch, soaking in a sensation he never thought he’d feel again. “I thought I lost you.”

“I know, but lucky for us both, I’m not that easy to get rid of. Now eat.”

And ever her most ardent supplicant, he ate the offering from the palm of her hand.

The moment she cut him free, he dragged a knuckle down her lower lip, covered in blood that was not her own. “Why, Liebe, what big teeth you have.”

She grinned. “The better to slay our enemies with.”

He kissed her fiercely, two parts love, one part lust and the other longing, all mixed with the blood of his torturer. His mind, body, and soul were hers for all of eternity, but most of all hiswildly beating heart.

It was a short, hard kiss. They had work to do; there’d be time for more later.

He tested his limbs, shaking them out, getting a sense for their strength. Still fatigued, but Astrid being alive and well and thriving had greatly restored his spirits. The Wiedergänger’s heart was a nice boost, too.

With Astrid by his side, he entered the fray, cutting down and devouring every acolyte in his path. Astrid flung icy projectiles.

No words passed between them, just an unspoken agreement to never part while they fought. After almost losing her, he couldn’t bear to be anywhere but in her orbit. And it seemed she felt the same.

The forest rangers and Suri had banded together, moving as a unit as they slashed, stabbed, and hacked, avenging their fallen colleague. Their enemies’ numbers had dwindled into the single digits. It wouldn’t be long now before they were wiped out completely.

One of the few acolytes left standing wielded a makeshift torch, pulled from the bonfire, trying frantically to light the nearby trees on fire. To what purpose was anyone’s guess—distraction? Or just senseless destruction for destruction’s sake?

Before Gudariks could put a stop to it, Johanna thwacked the arsonist over the head with an ax, cleaving the man’s skull into two.

Impressive. He never would’ve thought the forest ranger had it in her, but like a warrior of old, she felled her foes left and right, barely batting an eye at the carnage left in her wake.

Catching his eye, Johanna shrugged. “Don’t be mean to trees.”

No, indeed.

The forest rangers were ruthless in their quest for vengeance. He supposed being forced to watch a friend be skinned alivewould irrevocably change someone and recalibrate their moral compass.

Astrid paused her slaughter to survey the skirmish. And he followed suit, enraptured by her wrathful beauty.

Silvery, white hair billowed with the winter wind. Several wayward strands curled around a crown of antlers that matched his own, and he itched to untangle them and trace the topography of the prongs.

A once-white nightgown clung to her skin, soaked through with blood, and oh, how he loved the color red on her. It painted her chin and coated her breasts. Begging to be licked clean.

He bumped his hand against Astrid’s, brushing a finger along her long, black claws. They looked so pretty and wicked on her. They’d feel even better entangled in his fur or wrapped around his...

Stars above, that nightgown was ruining his focus.

The corner of her mouth quirked up, as if sensing his thoughts, and she looped their forefingers together. “Focus, Liebe.” Shards of ice emerged from the palm of her other hand, ready for release. “Which one’s Heldin?”

He tore his gaze away to scan the scene. “The better question is, where is Heldin?”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Red hair, minimally dressed, and stolen, bloody stag antlers atop her head. That was the description Gudariks gave her—brief but distinct. Heldin would be hard to miss.

Crouching to the ground, Astrid sifted snow through her fingers, scanning the ground for traces of the rival witch’s magic. It was blanketed by red—both from spilled blood and the skirmish’s muddled heat signatures.

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