Page 17 of Fall of Ruin and Wrath

“N-No, I don’t.”

“You’re rubbing your throat. The same throat I was just seconds away from crushing.”

My fingers stilled. His reminder was unnecessary, but could he see now? I dropped my hand.

Several more moments passed. Neither of us moved or spoke, and I needed to get moving. So did he. I peeked at the door again.

“I’m sorry.”

A jolt ran through me as my gaze flew back to him.

“When I came to, I . . . just reacted,” he continued gruffly, his hands falling to his thighs. “I wasn’t in my right mind. Thought . . . you had . . . something to do with this.”

I stared at him, intuition silent, as it normally was when it came to Hyhborn, but his apology sounded genuine.

The creak of rusty hinges came from the front of the barn, jerking my attention to the opening. My stomach lurched. That was likely not a rat. Dread surged through me. No one could see me here, with him.

“Stay here,” I whispered, pushing off the floor as the Lord slowly turned at the waist, to the opening of the stall.

As I hurried past him, I didn’t know what I was going to do or say if someone had entered, but as powerful as any Hyhborn lord was, he was gravely wounded. He was likely going to be of little help.

I stepped into the center aisle, my hands trembling. One barn door was half open. I saw nothing as I crept forward, lifting my hood. Wind could’ve picked up outside, blowing the door open. That was completely possible. I neared the two front stalls, muscles beginning to relax. It had to be—

The shadow darted out of the left stall. I lurched back, but wasn’t quick enough. A hand clamped down on my arm, giving it a painful jerk.

“What are you doing in here?”

The gasp of pain turned to one of recognition as I reached back, grabbing his arm. I knew this voice. It was Weber, one of the bakery workers in town, who always flirted with the paramours when he brought fresh pastries that Claude loved— ones he swore no one else could make as well. He was a large man— burly, knuckles bruised, always swollen from the boxing matches held in one of the gambling dens by the wharf.

His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. “Tell me.”

“You’re hurting me,” I rasped.

“Girl, I’m gonna do worse than that if you don’t answer me.” Weber dragged me farther into the stall, angling me away from the entrance as he folded his other arm around my neck. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

The smell of sweat and cane sugar swamped me as I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I . . . I was out for a walk— ”

“Come on now.” Spittle sprayed my cheek as Weber bent his head. “You’re going to have to—Wait.Is that blood on you?”

“I fell,” I said in a rush. “That’s why— ”

“Bullshit. What did you do in here?” he hissed, suddenly going still behind me.

“I— ”

“Quiet.” His head jerked to the side.

I felt what he heard. The sudden unnatural stillness of the barn— of the air thickening and charging. Then I heard it. The soft, nearly silent footfall. My entire body went rigid. Weber spun us around. The aisle was empty. Of course it was. The Lord could barely stand, had nearly been drained of all his blood, and was possibly still missing at least one eye.

“Is that Hyhborn blood on you?” Weber demanded, taking a step back. “Did you free that thing?”

Before I could answer, he yanked down my hood and cursed. “For fuck’s sake, you’re one of the Baron’s bitches.”

“I’m— Oh, fuck it.” Giving up on lying, I slammed my arm back. This time I didn’t hit hard flesh as I shoved my elbow into Weber’s stomach with enough force that his arms loosened with a curse of pain. Spinning around, I thrust my knee up, into his groin.

“Bitch,” Weber gasped, doubling over.

I darted around him, but Weber lurched forward. He caught the back of my cloak, throwing me to the floor like I was nothing more than a sack of trash. I landed on my knees for the umpteenth time that evening.