Page 9

CHAPTER NINE

T he wind howled across the narrow mountain pass, a mournful wail that cut through bone and sinew, as Ulric and his warriors crossed from the ocean side of the patrol route to the inland side.

The perspective that the path offered—all the way to the ocean on one side and deep into the mountains on the other—made it invaluable as an observation point, but that didn’t make it any less treacherous.

And this was the most treacherous part of the trail with a sheer rock face on one side and a dizzying drop on the other. The perfect place for an ambush.

His nostrils flared, testing the air. Something was wrong. The air carried a scent he couldn’t place—metal, sweat, and something else. Fear, perhaps. Not his own, but lingering in the stone and soil around them.

“Hold,” he ordered, and dismounted.

His warriors followed suit, trusting his instincts without question.

He moved slowly along the path, his senses attuned to the faintest tremor in the rock, the slightest shift in the wind. The scent grew stronger as he neared the curve ahead. A cold certainty settled in his chest; someone had been here, waiting.

A soft scrape of rock, an odd vibration, and then the earth beneath his feet trembled.

“Back!” he roared. “Rockslide!”

The warning came a heartbeat before the mountain itself seemed to groan. The pile of rocks above his head shifted, then tumbled, gaining momentum as more stones broke loose. The narrow path erupted into chaos.

He lunged backward, grabbing two of his younger guards by their leathers and hurling them backward to safety. The movement put him directly in the path of a boulder the size of a warhorse. He pivoted, bracing himself as the massive rock slammed into his shoulder.

The impact would have killed a normal man.

Even with his curse-enhanced strength, pain exploded through his body.

He staggered but remained standing as the boulder glanced off him and tumbled into the abyss below.

A jagged shard of rock sliced through his arm, opening a deep gash from shoulder to elbow.

Blood poured down his arm, hot and slick.

A primal roar exploded from his throat, more Beast than male. His vision blurred, edges tinged with red. His Beast surged in response to the threat, to the pain, but he forced it back down. He needed his mind clear.

“Report!” he demanded, once the last of the rocks had settled.

“Minor injuries only, my king,” Tacken responded, his voice worried as he eyed the blood streaming down Ulric’s arm. “Thanks to your warning.”

He nodded grimly, ignoring the throbbing agony of his wound. “Secure the area. I want to examine the rigging.”

Moving carefully along the path and stepping over debris, he followed the trail to where the rockslide had originated.

The rope system that should have held the safety netting in place had been severed—not worn through, but deliberately cut in a way that would ensure it could be severed with one swift blow.

He crouched, examining the cut ends. This was no crude hack job. The rope had been partially severed in multiple places, weakening it structurally while leaving it appearing intact to casual inspection. It would have taken time, patience, and expertise.

“This was no accident,” he said as Tacken joined him. “Look at the precision. This was planned.”

“The stable hand—” his guard began, but he shook his head.

“He could never have done this.” He straightened, pain lancing through his arm, but he ignored it. “This is the work of a professional. The stable hand was no more than a pawn. I suspect he was paid for information about our movements, then killed to create a scapegoat. Someone was up here today.”

Someone who was long gone, leaving no trace on the rocky ground.

They had disguised their scent as well, masking themselves so that nothing remained but the cold air rushing down from the mountain peaks, underlaid with the heavy scent of the evergreens.

He closed his eyes, trying to sift through the faint traces.

Something in that scent teased at his memory, but it danced just out of reach.

Fuck. His plan to lure them out had worked, but he had gained less information than he’d hoped.

“My king.” Tacken’s voice pulled him from his focus. “You’re bleeding badly.”

He glanced at his arm, seeing the blood soaking through his sleeve. His hand was numb, fingers barely responding to his commands, but the pain was a secondary concern to the cold fury building in his chest. His thoughts churned as Tacken fastened a makeshift bandage around his arm.

Had he let his anger at the betrayal make him reckless? And if they could get this close to him without leaving a trace, what of his little bride?

“We ride for home,” he ordered, already striding back toward the horses. “Now.”

His warriors scrambled to obey, responding to the urgency in his voice. As they mounted, he looked back at the sabotaged path, committing every detail to memory. He would find whoever did this. He would root them out and destroy them. But first, he had to get back to Jessamin.

The pain in his arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat as they began the treacherous descent, each pulse a reminder of how close he had come to death. But it wasn’t fear for himself that drove him. It was the thought of Jessamin, alone in his stronghold with a killer.

His horse sensed his urgency, hooves finding purchase on the rocky trail with sure-footed determination. Blood soaked the bandage Tacken had applied, but he barely noticed. His mind was already racing ahead, planning, strategizing.

The enemy had revealed themselves enough for him to know that this was no simple plot. Lasseran wanted him dead, and he had planted someone skilled enough to nearly succeed.

He urged Storm to move faster. He had to get back. He had to protect his queen.