Page 10 of Star Crossed Delta

MAK

E very great clan, community, and even civilization had a war dance, set to music, drumbeats, and syncopated cries designed to intimidate the enemy.

Mak’s clan did, too, in the Akkadian tradition.

Their battle dances were graphic and brutal, precisely what his wounded, angered spirit needed right now to purge itself.

He gestured to his Signet brothers, and they stepped back, Xander lifting his hands in surrender.

This was blood business, not for the Signet pack.

Mak turned to Kaal and his Sauvage family sentinels.

To Kelam, his deputy of security, who also captained the Sauvage’s ark ship, the SauXthos .

Also prowling to join in were two of the family’s most experienced enforcers, Asa and Koda, who were acting as his sentries during the ceremony.

With a nod, they shed their cloaks, safins , and tunics, revealing their chests, tense muscles, and the glowing gold and amethyst tattoos that adorned them.

The strong guard stepped forward to take the clothes from them as Mak loosened his arms and rolled his neck, readying for battle.

He spotted his bride standing offside, eyes on him. Her eyes glittered with curiosity, her mouth parted.

Saba’s gaze raked his body, from his jacked chest to his thighs encased in tight, dark slacks.

He suppressed the smirk that threatened to appear on his lips, the need to triumph hitting him with a fierce and wrathful savagery.

He sliced his eyes to Zolan and let his potent leer run free.

There was a reason Mak didn’t trust Zolan.

The fokker was running a secretive cartel side hustle.

His clan, facing poverty, had turned to undermining our business.

Undercutting his contracts, sabotaging Sauvage facilities, and stealing their steel, diamonds, and resources in brazen attacks.

The Asivan family had also been terrorizing Sauvage supply ships in raids and acts of fraud, all in an attempt to undermine their dominance in the alloy and energy sector.

Now, if the kinai had simply asked Mak to make a deal with him, he might have allowed a partnership.

That he didn’t, irked Mak to no end, and he was keen to wipe his self-satisfied smirk off his cousin’s face.

Zolan lifted his chin, eyes narrowing at Mak’s unfettered goading, as four members of the Asivan clan, including his younger brother Shan, joined him.

In moments, the floor cleared. The wedding party and thousands of their guests encircled them, silent, their eyes locked on the ten men at the center of the space.

Whispers raced, and tension rose, for this was a rare face-off between the Sauvages and the Asivans.

The crowd vote would declare the victor, and the best dance lead would take the unofficial crown as the most elite warrior.

The priest who’d married Saba and Mak stepped forward, and after Mak nodded, he poured wine on the ground to honor their ancestors.

Both parties held their ceremonial gold, silver, and wooden staffs.

These were traditionally tucked into all men’s waistbands at weddings instead of weapons or rapiers that could be used to kill.

They were still lethal if employed with fatal intention.

With a raise of Mak’s chin, the drums, part of the orchestra, began to beat, first, in a slow, resonant cadence.

Mak was at the front of the pack, his back erect in vigorous tension, his limbs extended, and his spine ramrod straight.

They kicked off with a stamping pattern that led to a hop from one foot to the other. Their naked torsos were inclined to the ground, and their feet drummed a staccato pulse.

They alternated heavy steps with sudden pauses, during which they flung their staffs into the air, where they whirled in synchronized circles before falling back into their hands.

Mak stepped forward and entered a trance, allowing a free flow of movement to be tuned into a profound interpretation of the rhythm. He twisted his hips, tossed his staff, crouched, and exploded into leaps.

He threw his pain, anger, bitterness, and rage into every stamp and step, using the dance as a cathartic release for all his bone-weary sadness.

His expression was taut, dark, and brooding. His lips snarled, and he extended his incisors so there would be no doubt as to his menace.

Sensing his mood, his Sauvage kin did the same and roared with him, stamping their feet in response to the change in the rhythm.

Their lewd calls, loud whistles, and untamed roars urged him to perform even more incredible feats of wild thrusting and twisting.

As the rhythm increased, his leaps were accompanied by a variety of subtle foot patterns, turns, kicks, and jumps.

He flourished his staff as he altered his tempo in reaction to the percussion, demonstrating the power and passion of his warrior spirit.

Lost in the trance of the beat and the movements, this was a bare expression of the soul; in ancient times, it had been an outpouring of strength and will to fight well in war.

He carried it in every movement, a potency indisputable and absolute.

Beside him, Kaal drew on his lycan core, both men releasing their power in a surge of raw energy. Dark lightning crackled from their chests, arcing through the air in violent whips of spectral force, filling the room with a hum of barely restrained fury.

Mak’s fangs bared, glinting, a flash of diamond-tipped primal might forged from lethal grace and unrelenting strength.

Behind him, his Sauvage sentinels took synchronized high vaults, wielding their staffs.

They finished with a storm of stamping feet, their rods flashing in sync to the flourish of syncopated, wild drumming, and sweat gleaming on their skin.

A roar of applause rose from the audience even as the Asivans stepped up and commandeered the floor.

Mak had to admit they had fine physiques, potent leaps, and muscle power.

But they had nothing on the Essens.

Still, they gave it a good, hard go.

Mak stood with his brothers, his eyes locked on their opponents as they performed a drill to a marching tune.

There was a wildness, a desperation, as the simulated strikes and shots of all kinds, dodging, retreating, jumping into the air, crouching.

Their dance also attempted to convey a darker energy, a frustration born of years spent on the sidelines. It culminated in aggressive postures, imitating the discharge of arrows, javelins, and delivering ruthless body blows.

It was mesmerizing but lacked the Sauvage clan’s synchronicity and form.

Zolan raised his hands in a final flourish as he and his brothers’ staffs were tossed skyward and fell into their grip as they sank to their knees.

Mak and Kaal exchanged looks and arched their brows.

‘Are you bowing, surrendering, or conceding to us?’ Mak growled.

With no warning, Zolan rushed toward Mak.

Fokk. He was insisting on bloodletting.

Mak met him with a growl of his own, flashing his staff so fast it was a blur.

Their blunt weapons clashed in loud cracks.

With a brutal flick, Mak whipped Zolan’s shoulder so hard it broke skin, the area flowing with crimson liquid that leaked to the ground in iridescent red drops.

‘Tis done,’ Mak hissed, leaning in to his kin. ‘You have shed blood, and you will scar from my blow. You had enough now, or shall I beat you to death, cousin?’

Mak stepped back, chest heaving, lips snarling as Zolan glared at him.

With an inhale of defeat, Zolan sank to one knee, dropped his eyes, and extended his staff.

The priest was called back, and he took Mak’s stave from him and the proffered one from Zolan.

He elevated Zolan’s and swiveled in a circle with a flourish, his robe billowing around him as muted applause ascended from their clan and supporters.

Then he hoisted Mak’s rapier higher, and the tent was swamped in thunderous cheer, a roar accompanied by thousands of stamping feet.

The winner was clear, the acclamation genuine, and Mak met Zolan’s narrowed gaze with a smirk.

Zolan rose, gave Mak a short bow, and raised his hand in salute.

Mak acknowledged the concession and congratulations with a quick dip of his head.

It was over.

He had won.

Zolan strode over to Mak, his chest still heaving, putting out a hand.

‘Well danced,’ he growled with a twist to his lips.

Mak inclined his head and smiled, leaning in to speak into his ear, his hand banded around one of his shoulders.

‘This is no game, Asivan. I’d gut you right here and now for touching my bride and bringing dishonor to the Essen house.

However, I’ll permit you to walk free, for demanding your neck on this night would taint my wedding.

Remember this, though: only a strong man lets his enemy walk away from him with a scar. ’

Mak pulled back and announced to the entire party.

‘Let us return to this auspicious night of celebration.’

While more roars of approval reverberated around them, Zolan leaned in, face heated.

‘We will meet again.’

‘Asivan, you’re a fokkin ’ sucker for punishment. Name the time and place, and I’ll be there,’ Mak drawled.

Zolan bristled, flames burning in his eyes.

Their faces drew closer, and they almost touched, snarling at each other, till a soft hand fell on Mak’s arm.

He turned in impatience, only to see Saba at his elbow.

Her eyes widened at him in warning.

Then, curiously, she did the same to Zolan, as if cautioning him, as if she knew or was intimate with him.

It rankled Mak until her voice cut through the heated silence.

‘ Sante , for your attendance at our wedding, ?arkhan Zolan ,’ she said, her tone polite but laced with steel.

‘Please let me have some time with my husband now. You’ve hogged him for far too long.’

She accompanied her words with a sweet smile. Then, before his cousin could respond, she led Mak away, his gaze burning into their backs.

Mak allowed Saba to guide him, surprised at how she’d commandeered him with a force of presence he had not expected.

He paused his stride, and she came to a quiet stop beside him at the foot of the bridal party platform, facing the ballroom.

Their guests gave them space.

With eyes fixed on her, Mak slid on the safin that one of his sentinels had thrown at him.