Page 9 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

I smirk and throw my things to the ground. “Like this,” I agree and whip two daggers from the pile.

I march past him. “Eyes on my face, Ivor.”

“No, ma’am,” he growls. “Gouge them out if you want to deny me this view.”

“Pervert.”

“Tease.”

“I’m saving your life. A second time.”

“Why?”

I tense and spin the daggers until I grip their hilts. “Duty.”

He stoops to my things and grabs a knife. “Duty to who? Were you hired?”

I ignore him and scowl. “Excuse you. That’s mine.”

He cocks a brow.

“Put it the fuck back, Serpent prick.”

“No. Ma’am,” he repeats with a wild grin. “Unless you want to make me. Throw me down. Have your way like you did at The Bid.”

My toes curl into the sand. I need to get laid. Not by him .

I whip my focus to the on-coming pirates. His shoulder brushes mine, and I shove him away. “Boundaries.”

“Ah, damn it,” he sputters, hugging himself, but he—unfortunately—recovers. “What are those?”

I blink a few times.

He smiles.

“Are you trying to be funny?” I gesture toward The Kraken’s band of vicious crew members. “I can let them kill you. That would be funny.”

“Ah, but your ‘duty’,” he reminds me with air-quotes. He frowns. “Hang on. Am I your damsel?”

I press my lips into a flat line. “No. Even a damsel has more self-respect than you. You’re worse. Scum. You belong at the bottom of that ocean, and if it weren’t for—”

“Say ‘duty’ again and I’ll take it as code for wanting to fuck me.”

My eyes widen.

He cackles. Winces. Laughs again and grabs his stomach.

“You’re insane,” I murmur.

But Warrick simply hurls his knife in response.

It cartwheels through the air—blade over hilt.

Then it wedges between the brows of the crew’s leader.

He matches my dumbfounded glare with a shrug. “Insane with good aim, sweetheart. Did my part. Good luck.”

He walks away.

He. Walks. Away.

Warrick

I just feel that if a man is given a choice of fighting or watching an attractive woman fight for him— in her underwear on a beach—it would be a shame not to sit back and enjoy the show.

Rayze can handle herself. She’s proven that multiple times in the short time span I’ve known her. I don’t need to flex my ego, but I sure as fuck need this view.

And it is a Godsdamn view.

She fights like something sacred and starved.

Holy in her hunger. Vicious in her grace.

Every strike is a prayer with a blade. When I think she’ll dodge, she takes the hit—lets it rattle her just enough to bait him closer.

She turns, fast as sin, and parts his throat like the Gods wrote it in blood.

Maybe they did. Maybe she’s danger made flesh, a divine catastrophe, but that only makes her more magnetic. She’s the kind of terrible decision a sane man would run from.

Good thing I’m bound to her. Magically chained. Fucked from the start. There’s no realm where this ends well, but I have every intention of seeing it through.

Part of me knows I should deny the Bond. She clearly wants to, but I falter at the idea of her disappearing.

For the first time in years, things are interesting . Scales are tipping.

Magic is back. Maybe it never left.

Best of all, that truth is being delivered in a lace-clad storm—smeared eyeliner, blood-soaked blades, and perfect lips curled into a feral grin.

I finger her trench coat, the thing in shreds among her pile of possessions. It’s mostly a hunk of fabric. Even the sleeves were torn off to bandage me.

Why? The question circles. Why did she save me? Why does she fight now? She claims its duty. Does she mean the Bond?

Pain ruptures through my left ankle. Brow furrowed, I lift my pant leg—then the Bond strums with exhaustion.

I shove from my perch, eyes on my woman.

Only two pirates remain. Ten lie dead in a circle. Rayze jerks with a limp to the side. She balances on one leg and drives a knife forward, but one of the pirates tips her over with a blunt kick to her hip.

I arm both palms with a pair of her smaller knives and stalk forward.

It occurs to me I’ve been a dick.

Of course, she needs help.

Of course, she can’t take out twelve men by herself.

Then she launches from the sand with a war cry, and I stop, mesmerized.

Of course, she’ll prove me wrong.

Rayze

Sharp iron meets the thick muscle of a kraken-tatted chest. I twist and slash at the last pirate’s groin. They both fall, and I shudder when their shouts of agony are met by a roar of shipmates sprinting to their rescue.

I move to put weight on my ankle and yelp. Sprained.

I. Fucking. Hate. The. Beach.

I stumble, ready to eat sand, but a strong shoulder meets my stomach, and I’m hoisted into the air.

“Warrick,” I hiss, tossed over him like a doll. I jolt, each breath jagged, as he jogs us toward the sea caves.

“Show’s over, baby. Consider me impressed. No need to go and die,” he grunts and pats my thigh.

I glare down at his ass. “Touch an ounce of lace and I’ll—”

He toys with the outer edge of my underwear. “Is this even practical?”

With a growl, I whip backward.

His arms tighten, and we fall.

My back slams against sand, and he barely catches himself above me, his face spasming with pain as his injuries flare.

“Practical enough,” I grit out and nail my knee in his crotch.

Warrick groans and rolls to the side. “Fuck, you know how to make a man fall in love.”

“I know how to kill them, too,” I spit and hobble to my feet, careful to keep weight off my ankle. I brush sand from my Godsdamn ass cheeks and limp into the mouth of the nearest cave.

Darkness splits into two tunnels. One leads out of Rathem. The other—deeper. Safer. The better bet.

As much as I’m desperate to leave The Kraken’s stronghold, its more likely his cronies will chase Warrick toward Synlon.

“Rayze,” his strangled voice comes from behind. “I can feel the pain in your ankle. You can’t walk, let alone run, and they’re close.”

I continue to waddle. I wish I had the energy and time to make the trek toward what remains of my coat. Don’t worry , I cast a distraught glance down the beach. I’ll mourn you .

“Let me help you.”

Does this man ever stop talking?

I catch myself against the tunnel wall. Deep breath. One more step—

Warrick sweeps me into his arms.

I let out a strangled shout of aggravation. He cradles me this time, his jaw flexing in the dim light of the tunnel as I knock against his wounds.

“So stubborn,” he mutters with a ghost of a grin.

I cross my arms. I refuse to hold him. “Left at the next branch,” I order.

His gaze dips to mine, and his grin lifts a bit more.

“Eyes on the tunnel,” I grumble.