Page 43 of The King's Man 2

Quin barks, “You’re unbelievable.”

Nicostratus lets his whip fly. “Take him to safety.”

The redcloak grabs the back of my cloak—

I jerk out of his grasp, onto my knees, and snatch a handful of each royal robe. “The wyverns are modified. Your uncle must be growing them with his blood. You have no chance to control them.” I look up. Nicostratus is focused on a couple of spiralling wyverns. Quin’s gaze is hard on mine, listening. “Unless you havemoreblood in the pack leader.”

“How much?”

“Half what’s running through him.”

“Sacrifice myself, you mean.” Quin says it as if he’s... considering it.

I pull myself up hurriedly, scowling. “Slashing your wrists won’t work.”

“How then?”

“Transfusion.”

My glare hardens on Quin as his becomes darker with resolve.

“Let me do it,” Nicostratus says. “I’m expendable.”

“No!” I say firmly. Quin lifts his gaze sharply from mine, settling it tightly over my shoulder. I glance at Nicostratus. “You’re stronger. You have to lead an attack, separate the pack from its leader. Shield us during the procedure. We’ll be vulnerable. At my signal,” I say, “you need to weaken the shield around the pack leader. I’ll need twenty, maybe thirty seconds to get the blood into it.”

Nicostratus hesitates.

“I willnotlet your brother die.”

He hears the vow in my voice; he calls his men into a new formation and leads them into the fray.

Quin is staring at me, gaze steeling up around a flicker of surprise. His leg is aching; I can taste the pain pulsing from him. I fan my fingers over his chest and push him three steps back, to the edge of the fountain. “Sit. Bracing your leg is depleting you too fast.”

He thrusts out his arm, rolling up his sleeve. “Take it.”

“You’ll feel—”

“You can’t kill me,” he warns. “You’ll be beheaded.”

“If you die, I’ll go right along with you.” I say it fast and foolishly, and hurriedly qualify. “Blood loss is a much better way to go.”

Dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrays trust beneath his stoic mask.

My chest tightens as I sink to my haunches before him and latch our wrists together with a spell. Quin grunts as I draw his blood, and I gasp as it flows into me, potent and warm, full of life, like protection against the cold of death surrounding us.

I add a second spell and my blood drains out, slowly, to replace it.

His eyes ping open. He looks from one arm to the other. “You’re giving me your blood.”

“Half as much as I’m taking.”

“Stop.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s channelling through a compatibility spell.”

“That is not what I meant,” he says quietly.

Stone bites into my knees as I shift, my focus locked on the flow of blood between us. It’s an exchange that takes from our deepest selves and shares it; it feels too intimate amongst the roaring chaos. “I promised your brother,” I say, my voice cracking. “Your wife. Your son. If I fail—” I grip his wrist like an anchor. “Iwon’tfail them.”

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