Page 32 of Bite Sized Bride
And in the midst of them, standing beside a tearful, apologetic Fenris, is Vexia.
Her platinum hair seems to suck the light from the air, her violet eyes landing on us with a cold, clinical satisfaction. She is not dressed for battle like last time. She wears a simple, elegant robe of dark purple silk, as if she is here merely to observe a scientific demonstration.
“Well done, Fenris,” she says, her voice like the chime of broken glass. “Your pathetic loyalty is… useful. Your offspring will be returned to you. In pieces, of course, but returned nonetheless.”
Fenris lets out a choked sob and collapses to his knees.
Kael roars. It is not a sound of grief or rage. It is the vibration of a promise being broken, of a trust being betrayed. It sounds like my foolish hope dying a violent death.
He shoves me behind him, his massive body a living wall. “Run,” he snarls, a single, guttural command.
But there is nowhere to run. The Miou are closing in, their swords raised.
The battle is a whirlwind of brutal, chaotic violence. Kael is a force of nature, a ten-foot-tall vortex of cursed fury. Hemeets the first wave of warriors head-on, his fists and claws tearing through their armor, his roars of rage echoing off the twisted trees. He is magnificent. He is terrifying. And he is outnumbered.
While he is engaged with the warriors, a shadow falls over me. Vexia. She has moved with a sorcerer’s silence, appearing before me as if from thin air.
“The anomaly,” she says, her violet eyes ablaze with a predatory curiosity. She circles me slowly, like a scientist studying a particularly interesting insect. “The flaw in the matrix. I spent years perfecting the Urog curse. It is a masterpiece of magical bio-engineering. It should be flawless. And yet… you broke it. With a word.”
She stops in front of me, her gaze intense. “I must admit, I am fascinated. What are you, little slave, that your presence can soothe a storm of pure chaos? What is in your blood?”
She reaches out a slender, pale hand, her fingers crackling with a faint, purple energy. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
She is going to kill me. Or worse.
Panic, cold and sharp, lances through me. I scramble backward, but my back hits the hard trunk of a twisted tree. I am trapped.
She begins to chant, a low, sibilant string of words that make the air around me feel thick and heavy, like syrup. A binding spell. I can feel it beginning to take hold, my limbs growing heavy, my muscles refusing to obey.
I am going to die here.
No.
A wave of pure, defiant rage, a feeling I recognize from Kael’s own amber eyes, surges through me. I will not be a specimen. I will not be a victim on a slab.
I throw my hand up, a desperate, instinctual gesture to ward off the encroaching magic. My palm connects with the shimmering purple energy that surrounds Vexia’s hand.
The result is instantaneous and violent.
There is a sound like a whip crack, and a flash of brilliant white light. The purple energy of Vexia’s spell doesn’t just dissipate; it short-circuits, fizzling out in a shower of angry, spitting sparks. The binding sensation vanishes, leaving a strange, tingling warmth in my veins.
Vexia stumbles back, her hand clutched to her chest, a look of utter shock on her perfect, cruel face. She stares at her own hand, then at me, her clinical curiosity replaced by a hungry, predatory excitement.
“Purna blood,” she breathes, the words a reverent whisper. “Fascinating. Diluted, but present. Oh, the things I will learn from taking you apart.”
She begins a new chant, a more powerful one this time, the air crackling with malevolent energy.
Kael sees it.
He is engaged with three warriors, his body a canvas of fresh wounds, but his head snaps toward us. He sees Vexia, her hands weaving a web of dark magic around me. He sees his mate, his peace, threatened by the architect of his own personal hell.
A sound rips from his throat that is unlike anything I have ever heard before. It is not a roar of rage. It is a torturous sound of pure, unadulterated agony and loss, the sound of a soul being torn in two.
The last vestiges of the orc, of Kael, are burned away. All that is left is the Urog. The monster. The berserker.
He moves. He is no longer a warrior. He is a natural disaster. He throws one of the Miou warriors into another with enough force to shatter them both. He ignores the sword that sinks deepinto his side, his only focus on the last warrior between him and Vexia. He grabs the elf by the head and simply… squeezes.
He is a blur of motion, a ten-foot-tall engine of death charging across the clearing, his eyes a solid, blazing red.
