“What’s wrong, Celutok?” Sandra asks, beckoning him forward with an encouraging wave. “Come on.”
Celutok flicks a nervous glance at the approaching wall of muscle that is Dracoth, then quickly averts his gaze, not unlike a scolded puppy. I suppress a smirk. The awe and fear my man inspires never fails to thrill me—it’s super-hot.
“My place is here,” Celutok mutters, managing a quick, apologetic smile for Sandra.
“Sandra,” Dracoth rumbles, halting beside me. His hand rests against my back, radiating warmth so intoxicating it nearly pulls a purr from my throat. “It’s good you are well,” he adds, with a surprising expression of what could almost pass as joy under the strongest microscope.
“Dracoth...” Sandra mutters, looking at her twiddling thumbs, a loathsome flicker of unease creasing her face. My lips tighten at the sight.
She better not still want him—he’s my murder husband now.
Then his crimson eyes turn, narrowing as they land on Celutok, taking in his muck-streaked clothes and subdued posture.
“You!” he thunders, his voice crashing like a volcanic eruption. “You failed to protect the females.” His face hardens to a glinting edge, like the diamond shards scattered across the ground. “My females!”
“I... I...” Celutok stammers, raising both hands in surrender. “Great Chieftain...” His overly broad face, usually calm, is now etched with worry. Though large by human standards, he seems to shrink under Dracoth’s towering frame, like a schoolboy caught stealing sweets.
“War Chieftain,” Dracoth corrects emotionlessly, stalking toward the now-trembling Farmer Letdown.
“Don’t hurt him!” Sandra cries, rushing to bar Dracoth’s path. “He’s done nothing wrong! He’s been looking after me while you’ve been gone!” Her blue eyes shimmer with pleading emotion, searching for understanding. Poor Sandra—she won’t find any inMr. Frowny Face.Interesting that she protects him.
Gods! She doesn’t fancy Farmer Letdown, does she?
“It’s okay, little Sandra,” Celutok says, his tone calm as he gently gestures for her to step aside. “I did fail to protect you both,” he admits, nodding toward me. “Especially you, War Chieftainess. My deepest apologies.”
He kneels before us, his wispy gray head bowed low. The sight sends a thrill coursing through me, power surging in my chest. This respect, this control—it’s everything I’ve craved. My breath quickens.
This is who I’m meant to be.
Dracoth’s hands curl into fists, the fury simmering beneath his skin all too obvious through our bond. I could let him unleash it, revel in his violent retribution. It would be so easy—and perhaps even satisfying. But no. I’ll be gracious. Too gracious for my own good, really.
“It’s quite all right,” I interject, my smile sweet, masking the smug satisfaction bubbling beneath. “It was crazy back then, with all those... things bolting everywhere.” I glance knowingly at Dracoth. “Besides, that’s how we finally came together, isn’t it, Dracoth?”
In typical Dracoth fashion, he remains silent, his unreadable gaze lingering on me as if trying to peel the skin from my bones. But I don’t miss the subtle loosening of his fists, the easing of tension in his immense shoulders.
Victory.
“Rise, Celutok,” Dracoth commands, turning back to the kneeling farmer. “Continue to serve the clan faithfully,” he adds, extending a helping hand.
“Great War Chieftain.” Celutok’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, rising to his feet with hands clasped around Dracoth’s wrist. “You honor me.”
“It would be a terrible crime to punish another for one’s own failings.”
A voice cuts through the dim from the nearby crowd, popping our burgeoning joy like a hot-air balloon.
Our heads whip toward the source of the bold interruption. My annoyance spikes, only to melt under the secret heart-fluttering heat, which I really hope Dracoth can’t detect through our bond.
Scarface—Death Head of the Berserk Crazies.
Oh, I remember him. How could I forget? Handsome, even with that side of his face mangled like old crumpled tissue paper.
He moves toward us with the lethal grace and confidence of a stalking tiger. His green eyes blaze like molten jade, fixated on Dracoth. Our group waits with bated breath at his approach, the tension hanging in the air, rising like the steam from the bubbling geyser nearby.
“You speak of your own failure, Jazreal?” Dracoth’s deep voice rumbles as he shifts his massive frame to meet the long-haired warrior head-on.
I glance between them, absently stroking the sleepy Todd nestled against my shoulder. The most awkward silence stretches—well, except for that time I was caught cheating with Henry. Their expressions unreadable, stern, locked in some unspoken battle like glowing ruby grinding against emerald.
Finally, Jazreal breaks the silence, his smirk pulling only one side of his scarred face. “I speak of your folly in letting such beautiful females stray too far from your sight.” His gaze flicks briefly to Sandra, then lingers on me. It’s the kind of look that would be infuriating if it weren’t so flattering.
