Page 37 of A Court of Masks and Roses (Royal Scout #1)

KALI

T he obsidian wall collapses. Icy shock smashes through me. Then fear. The rustling and chirping of the forest is suddenly a deafening hum. My face tingles, my arms and damn weak legs readying to sprint. I flick my wrists, seeking knives that are not there.

Trace’s eyes widen. “Kali. No. I didn’t mean—”

I don’t wait to hear what he meant. I yank my walking stick out of the ground and run.

Twigs crack beneath my stumbling feet, branches reaching out to snag my face and clothing.

Small, distant cuts and rips that I don’t feel.

Faster. I need to go faster and I can’t.

Pain that’s not of the flesh sears my chest. My boots thump the soft earth, kicking up bits of mud.

I don’t even know where the hells I think I’m running.

And where were you running to? Nasal whispers into my ear. My mind rings with cold panic.

“Kali.” Trace’s voice sounds close behind me. Closer.

I press on. Fast. Hard. Futile .

“Listen to me.” Trace grabs my shoulder and spins me toward him.

My balance wavers. I twist against Trace’s hold, but it’s too strong, too hard. My legs buckle beneath me, protesting my demands.

Trace’s hand tightens. “Kali. Stop. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Yes, he will. He did. He already did. All you need is to hobble the beast.

Trace gives me a small shake, his fingers digging into my flesh. “Listen, damn you.”

I pull again, realizing I’m truly trapped.

My breath quickens. The man holding me is bigger, stronger, and healthier.

He’s captured me. Restrained me. He thinks my life is his.

To give. To take. To shatter. The edges of my vision darken, panic thundering through me.

Boiling blood rushes to my hands and legs and heart. My hands tighten on my staff.

The man releases his hold and backs away, his palms suddenly in the air.

My body follows, my staff aimed at his heart. A din fills my ears, a furious harmony of rushing blood and screaming prisoners. My wrists flex. No ropes, no shackles. Not this time.

The man speaks.

I can’t hear the words. I don’t care about the words. My nostrils flare. My life is mine and I will fight for it. By stars, I will fight for it. With each and every breath. I advance my staff.

The bastard drops his hands to his sides. “I won’t fight you.”

Lip curling, I punch him in the face.

He staggers, touching his hand to his bleeding cheekbone. “Are you mad?” he barks, eyes flashing like a storm. I swing again .

This time, he grabs my arm. The world spins, the trees circling around me like spilled paint.

I struggle against my binds. Not again. Not this time.

Not ever. I step into his body and twist, my back pressing into his chest as I throw my weight under his.

With a pop of my hip, I launch the man into the air.

He rolls through the fall, coming up in a crouch. His leg sweeps my ankles and it’s my turn to tumble into the dirt. He follows, landing atop me, his thighs straddling my chest.

I bump him forward, forcing his arms to brace the ground for balance. The moment they do, I trap his left hand and leg, and bridge to that side. The shift of balance and momentum rolls us sideways until it’s me straddling his chest. Cocking my fist, I swing it at his jaw.

He bucks against me, as I did, and my blow only grazes his mandible. The storm in his eyes explodes, and in the next moment, I’m flying off him.

I land hard on my back.

Burying his fists in my tunic, the man hauls me to my feet and slams my back into a tree. The force rattles my ribs, the rough bark taking skin.

“Is this what you want? A fight?” he demands, his face close to mine. “Because I’m going to win. Every time.”

I laugh without humor and drive my knee into the meat of his thigh.

He grunts but holds his place. Pulling me back from the tree trunk, he goes for another solid slam.

My body hits the wood so hard that my head bounces, my scalp catching on a jagged edge of bark. The world blinks. I touch the back of my head.

The man flinches, blood draining from his face as he marks the slash of red on my hand.

I slam my knee into him. Again. Again. He shudders but takes the blows .

I growl. “You won’t win every time,” I yell into his face. I’m right. I have to be right, because the alternative is a nightmare of snaps and slices and binds. “Not every time.” Tears pour down my cheeks in warm, wet rows.

“No, not every time,” he whispers in agreement. His arms reach for me through the storm of my assault and gather me against his chest.

I strike him again and again and again until I can’t hit anymore because his mouth is on mine and an explosion of fire and need singes my every nerve.