Page 24 of Bite Sized Bride
The other three converge on him, their swords a whirlwind of silver. They are fast, but he is faster. He spins, his massive arm scything through the air, catching one of them across the chest and sending him flying into a tree with enough force to shatter his spine.
The remaining two are skilled. They work together, one attacking high, the other low, their blades a constant, stinging threat. Kael takes the cuts, the shallow gashes on his arms andlegs, as if they are nothing more than insect bites. He roars, a sound of pure, primal fury, and grabs one of them by the leg. He swings the elf like a club, smashing him into his companion. The sound of their armor and bodies colliding is a wet, percussive horror.
He drops the one he is holding and brings his foot down on the elf’s chest. The crunch is absolute. Final. The last warrior, his leg broken, tries to crawl away. Kael stalks toward him, his movements slow now, deliberate. He is savoring this. He places a foot on the elf’s back, pinning him to the ground. He reaches down, his claws extended.
“No,” I whisper from behind the rock, my voice shaking. I don’t want to see the Urog but the warrior. He’s back to a mindless killer that enjoys the torture and loss of life.
He freezes.
He turns his head, the red haze in his eyes so thick it almost eclipses the amber. He looks at the terrified, broken elf beneath his foot. He looks at me.
A war rages behind his eyes, a battle between the monster and the man.
With a final, guttural roar of frustration, he lifts his foot. He does not kill the last one. He turns his back on him and limps toward me, the red light slowly, reluctantly, receding from his eyes.
He stands before me, a terrifying apparition of blood and violence. He is covered in his own blood and the dark, glistening blood of his enemies. He is breathing heavily, his body a canvas of fresh wounds. He nudges my cheek with the side of his massive head, a strangely gentle, animalistic gesture. He is checking on me. He is making sure I am safe.
I look from him to the carnage he has wrought. The broken bodies of the dark elves, some of the most feared warriors inall of Protheka, lie scattered like discarded toys. I should be horrified. I should be repulsed.
And I am. A part of me, the part that remembers civility and peace, is screaming in terror.
But another part, the part that has lived in fear my entire life, the part that knows the cruelty of the men he just killed, is flooded with a wave of profound, terrifying gratitude.
He is a monster. He is a killer. He is my captor and my warden.
And he is the only reason I am still breathing.
14
KAEL
Blood sings in my veins.
It is a hot, triumphant song, a melody as old as the first axe swung in battle. The orc inside me, the ghost of Kael, revels in it. The scent of spilled dark elf blood, the satisfying crunch of bone under my fist, the terror in my enemies’ eyes—these are the notes of a warrior’s victory. I have defended my territory. I have protected my own.
But the song is discordant. A sour, grating note runs through it, tainting the victory. It is the Urog’s glee. The mindless, slavering bloodlust of the curse. The part of me that did not just want to defeat the last warrior, but to savor his screams, to peel the armor from his flesh and hear his ribs crack one by one. The part that I, at Mikana’s whispered plea, had to chain back down.
The red storm recedes from my eyes, leaving a landscape of carnage and a profound sense of self-loathing. I am a warrior who has been made to love the taste of filth. I am a protector whose hands are stained with a darkness that is not entirely his own.
I turn from the broken bodies, my new wounds burning, and limp toward the massive boulder where she hides. She is my anchor. My peace. The one clean thing in my blighted world.
She peeks out from behind the stone, her face a pale oval in the gloom, her dark eyes wide and luminous. They are filled with a horrified awe that rips at the tattered edges of my soul. She sees the monster. She sees the savior. She does not yet understand that they are the same creature.
I stand before her, dripping blood onto the mossy ground. I am a nightmare given form. I want to tell her that the violence was necessary. I want to tell her that the warrior regrets the beast’s joy. But the words are stone in my throat. All I can do is nudge her cheek with the side of my head, a clumsy, animalistic gesture that is the only language I have forare you safe?
She doesn’t flinch. Her hand, small and trembling, comes up to touch the gash on my arm where a Miou blade bit deep. Her touch is a searing brand of gentleness on my raw nerves.
“You’re hurt,” she whispers.
Yes.The word is a silent scream in my head.And I am what hurt me.
We cannot stay here. The one I let live will crawl back to his master. More will come. They will keep coming until one of us is dead. And I will not let it be her.
“Go,” I grunt, the word a rough tear in the quiet aftermath. I nod my head deeper into the forest.We run.
She understands. She gives the dead elves one last, haunted look, then turns and follows me as I plunge back into the trees.
The hunt is no longer a simple pursuit. It is a war. They are no longer just tracking us; they are herding us. We find signs of them everywhere—a discarded arrow fletched with black feathers, the faint scent of their metallic armor on the wind, the unnatural silence of a forest whose smaller creatures have been frightened into hiding.
