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Westvane’s nostrils flared. “Close enough.”

Samarin swallowed. “I didn’t mean —”

“Are you hurt?” he asked, lethal tone cracking through the quiet.

Slow to understand, Truly blinked. “Who — me?”

“Not talking to Montrose, princess.” Focus locked on Samarin, Westvane stepped onto the stone path.

“No.” The response came out weak, unsure, completely unconvincing. Brushing a clump of hair out of her eyes, she pulled in a steadying breath. “Freaked out, but not hurt.”

“Forgive me, Slayer.” Hitting one knee, Samarin bowed his head. The horns on his head quivered as he exposed the back of his neck. Not a good sign. She’d seen her fair share of war movies. Medieval warriors acted much the same when faced with certain death, inviting a quick strike. One that would sever the spinal cord and result in a clean kill. “I didn’t mean to trespass.”

Silence stretched, then widened into something else. Something more. Something harsh and lethal and altogether intolerable. Violence rode on the wind, beating like a drum, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck, making her skin crawl. What was Westvane doing? Trying to decide how to kill Samarin? End him quickly? Or draw the brutality out into something slow, agonizing, and bloody?

Truly’s mouth went dry.

Her eyes bounced between the two.

The idea Westvane might kill Samarin rubbed her the wrong way. The man-beast might’ve intended to eat her, but executing him over a misunderstanding didn’t seem fair. Granted, she wasn’t from Azlandia. Didn’t know the customs or traditions — or how one warrior atoned after insulting another. Death, though, seemed too steep a price to pay. She’d been the one trespassing on his property, which meant…

Truly sighed.

No way around it — she must intervene. And do it fast, before Westvane did whatever he planned, and she lost the opportunity to stop him.

Formulating her argument, Truly opened her mouth.

Westvane beat her to it. “Your name?”

“Samarin,” he said, horns twisting into tighter spirals. Head still bowed, he gestured toward his companion. Kneeling by his side, the woman stared at the porch floor, tears in her eyes. “My mate, Meniva.”

“You’re an Assenta.”

“Yes, my liege.”

“Get up, Samarin,” Westvane said as he reached for her. Truly didn’t hesitate. Given the vicious vibe in the air, she accepted the invitation and slid her hand into his. With a tug, he pulled her to her feet. “An Assenta kneels for no one.”

Samarin glanced up, surprise in his eyes.

“Up. Now. On your hooves,” Westvane said, growling at him before his attention returned to Truly. Raising her hand, he held it out to one side. A furrow between his brows, he looked her over again. “You sure? Nothing broken?”

“All good.” Standing a bit taller, Truly nodded to reassure him. Two sets of hooves scraped across wooden planks. She glanced at Samarin and his mate, seeing they’d gained their feet, then moved her focus back to Westvane. “A few scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious. I’m ready to roll.”

“Good.” He dropped her hand and, ignoring the pair on the porch, glanced over his shoulder. “Montrose?”

A horrible racket came from the hedge on the other side of the lawn. A clawed fist punched through the foliage. The plant reacted, thick wooden vines slithering, tightening, creating some kind of cage. Montrose cursed. His snout appeared through the greenery. A second hand punched through. Fangs flashed in the low light. A fight ensued. With a snarl, her friend emerged, yanking off sticky foliage, cutting through the horde of clinging vines.

He stepped free.

The plant reacted, green limbs reaching out to re-establish a grip.

Montrose hopped out of reach. Standing a safe distance away, he glared at the hedge and shook like a dog, dislodging the leaves stuck in his fur. “Stupid Verbanthamum. Didn’t missthatfucking stuff while I was away.”

Truly wanted to reply. She didn’t bother. After witnessing a plant try to eat him, she had no idea what to say, so instead of trying, she turned to Westvane. “I’m tapped out. No way I can reopen a door right now.”

“Recovery time?”

She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”