Page 14 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Naked, Blood-Slick, Hard

Rayze

Warrick drives forward with a roar.

Steel scrapes from sheaths. Boots thunder over cracked floorboards. A tankard smashes, splintering across the table, and adrenaline surges.

My drunken haze narrows. The pain in my ankle becomes nothing compared to my wrath.

A Kraken crony lunges—

And I whirl.

Hot pink feathers trail in my peripheral, my battle cry drowned by the cheers of the tavern. I drive my blade deep into my attacker’s side. Blood soaks my fist, his eyes boring into mine, and his ribs trap the knife. I yank, but it won’t budge.

A growl rips from my throat.

I kick him back, foot to sternum. He crashes into the crowd before hands drag him away. Bruce whistles in approval from behind the bar, and I mime a curtsy with a smile.

Fun. I never get an audience.

“Rayze!” Warrick shouts.

A pirate swings a broken bottle toward my head. I duck under, snag a fork off the nearest plate, and ram it in his eye.

Squelch. Twist . Crack.

He shouts and grabs me by the boa.

I spiral out of the feathery-trap as he falls and arm myself with two more forks, dropping to the pirate’s waist with a snarl and thrusting their prongs deep into his neck.

He gurgles, spits, and dies.

Good boy.

I blink in awe at the forks. Maybe cutlery should be added to the Shard Daughter inventory.

I hop up from my kill and wipe my hands off on my tank top, testing my ankle. Stinging pain shoots up my leg, but my focus tears toward Warrick and my pussy drenches in approval.

He’s a fucking monster—naked, blood-slick, hard. His cock swings with every vicious step, taut and proud like even it’s ready to kill. He grabs a broken bottle from the floor and drives it into a pirate’s mouth, shoving until glass cracks around his fist.

The crony chokes. Drops.

Another lunges from the bar behind him, dagger raised—but Warrick spins, muscles coiled and gleaming—and slams a chair leg straight through the bastard’s thigh. Bone splits, blood fountains, and Warrick tugs free, his smile wide as the crony screams.

So perfect.

A fist snatches my hair.

I grunt and drive my elbow into a throat. The pirate at my back coughs, and I whip around, snagging a burning candle from the nearest table.

Then I ram it down her throat.

Fire and wax fill her delicious cries.

Warrick barrels past, fingers kissing my hip before he grabs a stool and smashes it over a kraken-tatted asshole with a thunderous smack. Wood explodes, hurtling through the air, and drunks huddle under the tables, placing bids on our fight.

I smile, deaf to everything but the shriek of the fiddle—its player still sawing away like our fight is his final act. My gaze swipes over Warrick, and I groan.

It’s just fucking unfair. That cock. Those hard, tensed thighs. Blood drips down his back in sharp, fast rivulets. He moves like he was forged for this.

Born to kill. Crazed. Lethal.

Mine .

The word crashes through me like a war drum. I reel, and the Bond writhes, ecstatic at my clear lapse in judgment.

A pirate hurls a crate. Warrick ducks, grabs a rusted meat hook from the bar wall, and buries it in the bastard’s gut.

The sound is wet. Final.

But they keep fucking coming.

I launch onto the back of a crony with a shout of triumph, desperate to relieve the ache clawing through me.

The pirate’s blade misses my face by inches, and Warrick slams a tankard into his gut, ale splattering over us. Quickly, I relieve the blade from the pirate’s unsteady grasp, my legs clamped around his back, then drive hard steel through his skull with a feral yell.

The man sways, and I slide off, kicking his spine toward Warrick.

With incredible, vicious force, The Serpent Heir grabs the pirate by the jaw and drives the shithead straight through a table.

Wood caves, blood rains, and Warrick’s violent gaze locks with mine.

Gods, he’s so beautifully painted in our violence, breathing like a beast.

I should punch him.

I want to fuck him.

I might do both.

But two scum remain.

Warrick flashes me a cocky smile and moves. He hauls a chain free from the wreckage and lashes it forward. It cracks through the air, the hook at its end sinking into the first pirate’s shoulder with a meaty thunk. Then he yanks.

The crony stumbles into my path with a pained grunt, and I ram a broken shard of wood through his throat. It punches deep—artery split, blood shooting like a geyser.

The final pirate turns to run.

Warrick’s bare foot kicks into the back of his knee, snapping it sideways with a satisfying crunch .

I lunge for a piece of glass and drag it across the pirate’s throat in one smooth, practiced stroke.

He sobs. Falls.

And the fiddle plays a final, climactic squeal.

Silence. Nothing but the rasp of our breathing and the slow creak of floorboards.

Drunkards shift out from under the refuge of tables, gold coins silently passed to those who bid on our win.

I sway.

The place is wrecked. Broken tables. Blood pooled beneath twitching bodies. Smoke curls against the rugged, rock ceiling, a small fire started in the corner. Gore streaks the floor like someone tried to finger-paint with blood.

“You’ve got something in your ass,” Warrick’s gruff voice slides over my shoulder.

“What—?”

His fingers graze my ass cheek. Then he yanks.

I yip. Fucking yip . A full-body jolt rocks through me as metal prongs slide from my skin.

Warrick lifts a fork between us, the thing bloodied and bent, his lips curved with a lazy, shit-eating grin. “You do know how to keep things interesting,” he says.

Then—

“GET. OUT.”

The order snaps furious, feminine, and fast-approaching from the curtains leading to the pleasure rooms.

Penelope.

The tavern owner rushes toward us, her wrinkled hands clutched around black fabric and a diamond-studded Heir mask.

“Get out, get out, GET OUT!” she shrieks and hurls Warrick’s clothes into his bloody, bruised chest with a smack, the fabric still damp. “I let you stay here out of respect for Lass, but never again, Ivor. You hear me? Fucking Heirs.”

Lass . I close my eyes, letting the name wrap around me in a tight embrace before I let it fade away.

Penelope turns toward the bar, cursing.

Two guards sitting at the counter freeze as she jabs an angry finger toward them. Both men are wide-eyed, their mugs of ale paused at their lips, a hefty pile of coins sitting between them.

Oh, that’s nice. They bid on us.

“You,” Penelope growls. “Escort them out. Now .”

Warrick and I take a few steps back as the guards rush us. I open my mouth to protest but only a grunt escapes as large hands shove us out. The tavern door bangs shut, its front knocker giving a harsh clang, and my shoulder brushes Warrick’s.

The tunnel crowd stalls.

Heads turn. Eyes drop.

To Serpent tattoos.

To a very hard cock.

Warrick grits out a curse and hides behind his wad of clothes.

“Well.” I chew on my tongue. Pain carves its way in, adrenaline and drunkenness leaving me to reality. My ankle is an angry balloon, my crutch long lost to the wreckage. “Shit,” I say and a fit of laughter cracks out of me.

I clap a hand over my mouth, mortified, but Warrick rolls with his own deep chuckle. I turn to him, his smile bright against the red of his broken nose.

The Bond tugs affectionately between us, and I swallow.

Above, late afternoon light streams through metal grates. The hustle and bustle of Rathem echoes from the upper streets to within the tunnel.

But all I can do is stare at my— enemy , I remind myself.

I let this go way too far.

Warrick’s smile falters. His gaze darts over my face before he looks over his shoulder. “What? What’s wrong?”

He inches toward me, one hand reaching like his first instinct is to pull me close. Shield me. That kind of affection doesn’t bloom in a few days. It’s forced. Fabricated.

The Bond strains. It feels how my hips tilt away, one foot sliding back. My magic uncurls from its slumber, awakening with curiosity as I subtly call for it.

Brows drawn, Warrick glances down at the small white crackles of light blurring across my knuckles. “Rayze?”

“Who’s Lass?” I ask.

He stiffens, his eyes darkening. Tension flickers through his jaw, his lips parting with a harsh exhale.

“Ruel’s mother,” he says, and I’m surprised he doesn’t lie. “She was a Skin girl sold to this tavern during Penelope’s prime. Later, she was selected by The Kraken to be his wife, but this place remained a safe place for her. Then, I guess—” He shrugs. “It became one for Ruel and us, the Heirs.”

He hesitates. His eyes trace my face as he debates his next words. “The Skin here, they’re under my employment,” he starts.

“Forget me,” I say, unable to hear the rest. I don’t need to.

“What?” he asks.

The air shudders and shifts as his threads swim to life. I find his memory and begin to knot any with an imprint of who I am.

“I said: forget me ,” I command.

Warrick drops his clothes and clutches my shoulders, trying to steady himself. He blinks rapidly, frowning. “What are you—”

“Forget magic. Forget the Bond.” I latch to the knots I create. “You ran from The Bid. Were taken by Satori and Ruel. You fought The Kraken Heir, and you swam to shore. Alone.”

He stiffens. His eyes glaze over.

“Find the nearest Serpent nest.” I gently pry his hands from my shoulders and take a firm step back. “Rest. Heal. Then return to Synlon.”

I harden my jaw. “Forget. Me.”