Page 63 of Flameborne: Fury (Emberquell Academy #2)

I gaped at this warrior of such renown, whose flesh carried the scars of battle on every inch. Even facing the King there was no hint of retreat in his posture.

Fascinating.

My breathing shallowed as the implications of that fact clicked into place: Was it possible this man had a soul?

And if so, did he possess a conscience to match?

Adrenaline rocketed through my veins, my breath stopping completely as my mind explored the potential as avidly as any hound of the dark.

And I saw it. All of it. What was needed of me. And how changing the plan could change the world.

There was no time to question. No room for doubt. I sent a silent prayer to the God against whom these creatures had rebelled before letting go of my tunic hem and slowly slipping my hand into the hidden sheath of my favorite blade strapped against my ribs.

The King began to speak at the same moment Melek’s eyes cut to the shadow in which I’d secreted myself for the past five hours, his attention caught by the flutter of my hem. The warrior reacted with the speed of a lion, and the precision of a bird of prey.

“THE ENEMY IS HERE! GUARDS TO THE KING!” he roared as he launched himself past the King’s lounge… and straight for me.

2. In Your Hands

SOUNDTRACK: Crucify Me by Rosey Reign

~ YILAN ~

With a hiss, I threw myself to the floor as his clawed hand swiped to grasp me, his nail scraping my cheekbone so I flinched as I tucked and rolled, aiming for that thin slice I’d left in the back of the King’s tent.

I had a tiny frame compared to these creatures, which helped me hide in their shadows, but even I couldn’t fit broadside through the slit I’d used to enter.

The side of the tent caught me like a lover’s embrace, the slit widening against my spine, but not tearing, so the surrounding canvas hugged my body.

Still rolling, the dagger’s hilt gripped in my fist, I threw the hand wide to swing the blade through the canvas and spit me out on the other side—which would mean running in daylight through an army camp of Nephilim.

But I’d take my chances among those ranks over facing the famed General hand-to-hand any day.

Unfortunately, the blade caught his forearm as he grabbed for me a second time.

He roared but, unlike me, didn’t flinch.

There was a thunder in my ear, a nervy jolt in my hand as my blade clinked to the dirt, and then the spinning stopped.

I was on the ground, still hugged on one side by the tent, but pinned under the weight of a Nephilim warrior.

The Nephilim warrior.

I couldn’t breathe. And not just because he was slowly crushing me.

He muttered one curse, then planted his hand on my throat and used that arm to brace his weight and push himself up, looming over me, golden-green gaze murderous and piercing. Blood spatter from the wound on his arm dripped slowly down his cheek as he bared his very white, very unmarred teeth.

“The King’s wish is my honor,” he snarled, and his grip tightened on my throat so I could not breathe. “I caught the Fetch, Sire.”

As the King grunted in approval and his guards hurried to take positions between us, Melek slid my dagger out from under my shoulder where it had fallen and I’d rolled onto it, then he lifted it, examining the blade that was smeared with his blood, and dirt.

I watched, awed, as Melek licked his own blood off the blade with the flat of his long, thick tongue and my belly quivered. Then he cut that stunning, golden-green gaze down to meet my eyes and he smiled maliciously.

My vision was already beginning to tunnel from lack of oxygen when he laid the razor-edge of that dagger against my skin just above where he gripped my neck.

“You have two choices, Fetch . I can bleed you dead right now, or you can bow before my King and offer your dubious honor to the anointing on him. Tell him every secret you ever stole. Which will it be?”

He arched one brow, his eyes promising violence, no matter what I chose.

I was gripping his wrist in both my hands, though I knew it was pointless.

But his sheer strength rendered all my other options moot: A knifehand blow applied to his ribs would only aggravate him.

He’d moved so fast, I had no doubt he’d have me bleeding—at the edge of my own blade—before I could reach to grab the dagger strapped at my ankle.

And he was just too damn heavy for me to flip him, especially shoved up against the side of the tent as I was.

No. I was utterly at his mercy.

Given that he’d pinned my lower body to the dirt with his hips, and he was braced over me with his back arched and that sizable manhood pressed against my flesh…

there were ways and means I could have wished he’d taken me instead.

But wishes were butterfly farts in the wind. Right now, I needed to live.

I opened my mouth, but his grip was so strong, I couldn’t speak. And my eyes were beginning to blur.

“It wants to speak,” someone said from behind him. Someone with psychic gifts, clearly.

Father’s light. How had these creatures bested most of the continent?

But Melek’s grip eased on my throat, so I wheezed, sucking in a lungful of blessed, pure air, ignoring the stench of sweaty, bloody male, and thanking God for the gift of life.

“Speak up, Fetch,” he growled.

I swallowed, wincing at the pain in my throat, praying he hadn’t broken anything. “I’ll… I’ll surrender,” I croaked.

His eyes flashed like blades in the sun.

Something deep in my belly clenched. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, but before I could say anything more, he drew his knees up, planting his feet under him, and hooked his free hand—dagger still gripped in his fist, though he held it so the blade flattened against his wrist—under my armpit, pulling me up to follow.

I choked as his grip on my throat tightened again, but within moments I stood swaying, able to breathe again, but now surrounded by a handful of these creatures, all staring down at me like hungry wolves on a carcass.

“Bring her to me,” the King said, his voice gruff and irritated, as if my appearance was more annoying than dangerous.

Ignorant fuck.

Melek dragged me forward, turned me to face him, and planted a hand between my shoulder blades, pushing me to my knees. I did not fight.

I would be a compliant and easy prisoner.

Until I wasn’t.

Melek stood behind where I knelt, one boot planted between my knees ready to kick either leg out from under me if I attempted to stand, one hand gripping my shoulder hard enough to bruise, the other holding the knife to my throat.

“Look at me, Fetch,” the King growled.

Lifting my chin, I met his eyes as instructed, and had to fight not to smile.

If only he knew how close he’d come to dying by my hand already today. It would wipe that arrogant smirk off his face.

“How many of your… companions are here?”

“None,” I said truthfully. “Only me.”

The King arched one brow. “You want me to believe your people sent a single female among us without—”

“I am particularly skilled. The others trust me. I’ve been here since Firstday.”

The King scowled. “A liar and a thief. There’s nothing to be gained by—”

“On Firstday, you poked four of your bayan girls—one took it in the ass because she feared your offspring would… how did she put it, split her from pudang to sternum?”

The King blinked.

“On Secondday, your apothecary provided services that I’m happy to recount if you wish, but I assume you will not want your men to hear those very private details. And this morning—”

“Enough,” the King snapped.

I felt Melek go still behind me and had to fight another grin. “I know when I am bested, Sire. I have watched you for days. I cannot overwhelm your brute strength. I will serve you to save my skin.”

The King glared at me and for a moment I feared I’d gone too far when he leaned in, shoving Melek’s blade-hand away, and gripped my throat with his meatfist, leaning into my ear so his hot breath played on my cheek and sent shudders of dread down my spine.

“I don’t care what you’ve seen of me, you putrid little cunt .

I am the son of a god, and I can do as I wish.

I care only what you know of my enemies.

Now… I hope that ground isn’t too hard. You’re going to be on your knees for a very, very long time.

And when I get tired of listening to you, you’ll stay on your knees, and I’ll fill your throat.

Bestow a gift of the gods’ seed for you to swallow, you lucky bitch.

Then perhaps you’ll be the one to take it up the ass, hmmm?

That is, if I can bring myself to touch a Fetch…

” He inhaled deeply, then wrinkled his hooked nose. “You stink.”

I had no doubt it was true. Surveillance was a dirty game—especially in a military camp.

Smelling like your surroundings made it far less likely for anyone to notice your presence.

And frankly, these males were awful. There was little choice but to let my body reek in order to blend in.

But I thought wistfully of a bath every hour.

Still, my stomach churned at very vivid pictures he had painted in my mind. I’d seen him viciously plow several women already. But I didn’t flinch.

“I am your servant, of course,” I said quietly.

Timidly. “And you could take my life at any moment. I cannot deny that. But I should warn you that if you put your cock in my mouth, I will bite it off. And if you rape me, I will scream every word of your conversation with the visitors you had two nights ago. Every. Single. Word.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “You can’t scream with my fist around your throat.”

“I’m a Fetch. Try me.”

Please, God, let him believe the legends. Please, let him believe we speak telepathically. Please can he—

The King snorted air from his nose and leaned back, though he still kept his grip on my throat, his face twisted with hate and disgust.

The feeling is mutual, Sire.