Page 9 of Rook
He didn’t slow. “I know where my campsite is,” he grit out.
Pride. Stubbornness. It matched her own in a way she found both aggravating and, god help her, almost funny.
“It is my responsibility to ensure your safety,” he insisted, his voice pure steel and command, every inch the dragon lord he claimed to be.
“Same,” she tossed back, lifting her chin. Let him puzzle that one out.
He muttered something very unlordly under his breath, a sound that raked down her spine in an entirely too-pleasant way.
Why did her body react like that? It had to be some kind of panic response, her system short-circuiting before it all went to hell. She shut the thought down and focused on the path.
Rook fell into step beside her, a silent truce hanging in the air. Every so often, she felt the prickle of his attention as he glanced her way. It was protective and assessing, but also strangely tentative, as if he worried she might disappear if he blinked.
Ahead, the ground sloped gently upward as the trees thinned. Sasha recognized the small clearing before they even reached it, a hidden spot just off the main trail.
“It’s just over here,” Rook announced, striding ahead of her as if he’d been graciously letting her lead all along. He ducked under a low branch and stepped into the open space.
His camp was stark. The tent looked like a prop from a sci-fi movie, all slick black material and sharp angles with no visible zippers or poles. It was a compact dome, staked with military precision and barely big enough for a man of his size. A ring of stones marked a fire pit, but it held only cold ash. The site was immaculate. Even a man who could conjure flames from his fingertips took fire safety seriously.
She stepped closer, scanning the quiet clearing. A cold foreboding teased the back of her mind.
Rook’s hand shot out, his fingers closing warm and strong around her forearm. The grip was firm but not painful. She froze, her pulse skipping.
“Someone’s been here,” he said, his voice a low rush of tension.
Before the words could register, shadows exploded from the tree line. Two of the fugitives appeared, their faces twisted in snarls as they conjured swirling balls of fire between their hands. Sasha’s instincts took over, and she threw her arms up as if she could block the attack.
In the same instant, Rook shoved himself in front of her. He threw up a wall of his own fire with a roar. His flames met theirs, swallowing the attack with a deafening hiss. Wind and heat slammed into her, stealing the air from her lungs. The light illuminated everything: the furious faces of the slavers, the gleaming edges of the tent, and every drop of sweat on Rook’s brow.
Then a third slaver slid from the darkness behind them, cutting off their escape. He was leaner than the others, his mouth curved into a predatory grin that never reached his golden eyes.
“Lord Rook even brought us a present,” the man sneered, his gaze raking over Sasha. “We owe you, truly.” The words made her skin crawl.
Fear had no time to set in before the clearing erupted into violence.
Rook shoved her sideways, a surprisingly gentle push that sent her stumbling toward the cover of a broad pine tree. “Take cover!” His voice was sharp as a gunshot, a raw, protective sound that told her he would stand between her and hell itself.
She scrambled behind the gnarled trunk and crouched low, her heart hammering against her ribs. The bark dug into her palms. She watched slivers of the fight through the branches: blasts of fire arcing like molten arrows, Rook twisting and casting out ribbons of heat, the slavers splitting, then converging.
The image of Erik flashed through her mind, his body vanishing in a blast of blue-hot flame. Her stomach clenched. She forced the bile down and pressed her forehead to her knees, taking a single, ragged breath. She would not break.
The fight turned. One of the slavers hurled a spinning orb of fire straight at Rook. He moved to deflect it, but a second bolt struck him from the side. The impact sent him staggering to one knee. He caught himself with a snarl, the acrid scent of singed fabric filling the air.
Oh no. They were not doing this. She should have been paralyzed. She should have stayed hidden. But watching Rook fall ignited something wild and furious inside her.
Her eyes scanned the ground, and her hand closed over a rock the size of a softball. It was rough and cold, its weight a surprising comfort. She didn’t think. She just reared back and threw it with every ounce of adrenaline-fueled anger in her body.
The rock caught the nearest slaver square in the cheekbone with a satisfying thunk. The big man crumpled sideways, his conjured flame sputtering out.
Her jaw dropped. She didn’t have time to be surprised. Her hand was already closing around another stone, a lopsided chunk of quartz. She threw it wildly, but the distraction was enough.
Rook surged to his feet, power shimmering off him in visible waves. He lifted his hands, his palms blazing with a ferocious light, and sent a sheet of fire straight at the slavers. It was controlled and precise, a blade of heat that cut through the clearing. One slaver went down with a howl, his body engulfed. The other, seeing his allies felled, turned and ran.
Heat and silence crashed down. For a long moment, all Sasha could do was breathe, the coppery taste of fear thick in her throat.
She broke cover and darted to Rook’s side. He stood over the unmoving slaver, blood still trickling from the mark her rock had made.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, her voice scratchy.
