Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I roll, spring back up, only to take a second hit across the ribs.
The force seizes my breath, vision pulsing black at the edges. I slash blindly, catching one across the forearm, and the scent of blood fills the air.
Two down but not enough.
“Whatever enchantment you put on King Legend,” the girl snarls, magic gathering around her like storm clouds, “it’ll fade. And when it does, he’ll see you for exactly what you are.”
I spit blood into the dirt. “Deadly? Gorgeous? Really flexible?”
“Murderer.”
Her spell hits like a sledgehammer.
My knees buckle and pain blooms at the base of my skull, jabbing like someone driving spikes through my neck.
A third steps in, voice cold. “You slit her throat so we will slice yours.”
“I didn’t—”
“You think Argents are weak?” he sneers. “You’re not one of us. Not Stygian. Not Argent. Not even Fae. So, what the hell are you?”
His magic wraps around my ribs, squeezing. A bones creaks and my vision fractures.
“Worthless,” he finishes. “That’s what.”
Blood floods my mouth, my skin burning from the inside out, like something deep within me is trying to claw free.
Just as spots appear before my eyes, a roar whips through the air like thunder.
Legend erupts into the clearing, power crackling off his skin, rolling in waves that shove the attackers backward before he even touches them.
The first boy goes flying—spine slamming into a tree so hard the bark cracks. The girl tries to lift her hands in surrender, but Legend twists her wrist, hurling it into the dirt where it detonates in a burst of ash. The last attacker barely opens his mouth to beg for mercy before Legend’s fist connects with his jaw, sending him sprawling, unconscious before he hits the ground.
And then he’s crouching beside me, strong, solid arms carefully scooping me up, holding me as if my bones might dissolve if he loosens even a fraction.
His chest heaves, his jaw tight, and his eyes—gods. They burn like he wants to raze the whole realm for touching me.
I blink up at him, everything spinning, my blood humming with the echo of that roar. I should want to push him, to deny his careful hands and wordless fear he stares down at me with.
But I…don’t want that. Not right now.
Safety wraps around me in the shape of his arms, in the scent of his being…in something I refuse to name.
“It’s okay, little monster,” Legend purrs. “I’ve got you.” Bending, he kisses my forehead with gentleness that makes me bite my tongue.
I don’t like this…this tightness in my chest. The feeling is an odd one, coiling around my ribs like barbed wire, but beneath that sharp tug is warmth. Almost satisfaction, like the part of me I don’t recognize feels settled with Legend this close.
Legend turns toward the archway and steps forward, carrying me as if I weigh nothing.
“I can walk,” I grumble, even though every inch of me has already relaxed in his hold.
“I know you can, but I’m going to carry you anyway.”
I don’t respond.
Behind him, fire erupts. His brothers and London have joined us, burning ropes curling around their hands, faces carved with murderous intent as they drag the unconscious students aside.
Legend bites into the thick web of flesh between his thumb and pointer finger and smears it across the carved sigil on the door.
The blood of a royal…
The arch glows, flares, and then splits open. A corridor of light yawns wide, ancient and hungry.
I tilt my head over his shoulder just long enough to meet Creed’s stare.
His eyes narrow, following Legend’s every step as he carries me through the Royal Gateway.
Our gazes only break when the portal closes, sealing him on the other side.
Chapter Nineteen
Haide
“Seriously, Legend,” I protest. “You can put me down, you know. My legs work.”
His grip tightens, his chest rumbling. “No.”
“You’re annoying,” I mutter, but the word comes out softer than intended. My body has apparently decided his chest is the most comfortable place it’s ever been. I blame the lack of airflow to my brain in the moments before he appeared.
His room is all shadowed stone walls broken by narrow windows. Weapons hang from the far wall—swords, axes, blades shaped like they were made for tearing souls instead of skin. Above the bed, a map of Rathe burns softly with shifting lines of light, alive with movement I don’t understand.
“Why do you have weapons if you don’t fight with your hands?” I ask, almost sighing as he lowers me onto a bed of feathers, black silk surrounding me from head to toe.
He handles me with care that would be insulting if my ribs didn’t still feel like they’d been kicked in by a particularly enthusiastic dragon.
“Just because you’ve never seen me feed my fist to a man in full combat doesn’t mean I’m not well-versed,” he boasts. “You think otherwise, but I could very easily hold my own to you, little monster.”