Page 25 of Wanted by the Alien Warden (Cowboy Colony Mail-Order Brides #4)

25

ZOHRO

A s I rode my shuldu through the endlessly pissing rain, I asked myself, for what felt like the thousandth time, why, in the great bloody blazes, was I doing this?

Why was I out here in this storm, every part of me soaked, from my hat to my pants to my boots? Why was I leaving my herd – and all the work that went along with that – in order to spend days travelling to Warden Hallum’s province? Why was I willing to subject myself to the unsavoury company of the convicts from said province, in as absurd a location as a saloon?

The very same saloon that was now coming into view ahead?

I swiped water from my face. A pointless exercise, considering it was replaced immediately by yet more rain.

Asking these questions was also a pointless exercise.

Because I already knew the answer. I was doing this – the trudging, the travelling – because, against all my better judgment, I wanted a human bride.

There. I’d admitted it.

The very thing I’d fought so hard against when Warden Tenn had first told us about the possibility was now the thing I coveted most.

Coveted. I could think of no better word.

I’d hated the idea of having a human bride.

But then I’d seen the ones meant for Silar, Fallon, and Oaken, with their pretty smiles and strange eyes and I…

I’d coveted. Not those three women, specifically.

But one for myself.

And so, when the warden had commanded me to come here, telling me to line myself up alongside Warden Hallum’s men, like I was a bull to be judged in a fair, I’d swallowed my complaints and done it.

Well, not all of my complaints.

But at least I was here, wasn’t I?

“Almost there, Wyn,” I muttered. I patted Wyn’s golden neck, dark and slick from the rain.

The saloon was a long building of wood construction. Apparently, it was the establishment run by some fool named Rivven.

Rivven was not outside to greet me on my approach, which I would have considered rather horrendously rude, if I hadn’t been distracted by the sight of three men coming around the side of the building.

Three men….

Carrying the body of a fourth.

I jolted with recognition.

I knew that body. I knew those limp purple arms, the hanging white hair.

They’ve gone and killed the warden.

I launched myself off of Wyn’s back, my tail already going for the knife at my belt.

Warden Tenn may have been the most insufferable authority figure alive.

But he was still my warden.

“You there!” I shouted, shifting my knife to my hand. “Stop!”

They did not stop. They barely seemed to register me at all, so focused were they on disposing of the warden’s body. I was about to charge at them, when a fifth figure came into view. I hadn’t seen this one before. It was too small, hidden by the bulk of the biggest male.

She was too small.

Through the pounding rain and the drenched fabric of my hat, I heard her frantic words.

“I’m here with you, Tenn. We’re going to get you fixed up. Everything’s alright, now. Everything’s alright.”

Perhaps Warden Tenn wasn’t dead, then. But considering that he was currently limp in the arms of these nameless scoundrels, everything was most certainly not alright.

The group went inside the building. Biting back a hiss, I followed at a run.

I opened the door on total mayhem. Shouts and commands rang out, go here, put him there, no, not there, you dunce! That sort of thing. There was one long table in the centre of the room, and the sight of Warden Tenn’s body being heaped atop it triggered a slew of memories.

This was not a saloon.

It was an operating theatre.

“Who are you?” asked one of the three males – a green-skinned one – when he noticed me.

“I am Zohro, son of one of the greatest Zabrian surgeons in living memory. Get the blazes out of my way.”

The man’s eyes shone white through the strands of purple hair plastered to his face. He looked like he might try to argue. Or physically fight me. But an obviously more sensible man – this one with red eyes and very ugly short hair – dragged the first male away before he could continue getting in my way.

I stepped up to the table. My eyes, trained from the very earliest days of childhood by my father, scanned Warden Tenn’s form, assessing.

Unconscious. Not good.

Bleeding profusely from the side of the throat. Also not good.

Zabrian blood typically clotted quickly. But some wounds were just too deep, and bled too fast, for that to do much good.

Wounds like Warden Tenn’s.

But if watching my father save lives had taught me anything, it was that nothing was over until the patient’s heart stopped beating.

And sometimes, not even then.

“You,” I said, aiming my knife at a blue-skinned, white-eyed male. “Get me a sewing kit.”