Fierce. Unyielding. Familiar in a way I could not explain.
His gaze locked onto mine, and something inside me shuddered.
He moved forward, unapologetic, unstoppable, his every step measured, precise—like a predator closing in.
Thomas stiffened beside me, and his fingers twitched at his sides. "Who in the blazes?—"
The stranger's voice was low, thunderous, absolute.
"Take your hands off her, or I will cut them off."
Gasps erupted from the pews. A murmur of scandal. My father stepped forward in outrage.
The priest, eyes wide, found his voice. "Sir, you cannot simply?—"
"Vaelora." The sound of his voice, the word, struck something inside me, something deep, something that did not make sense.
I had never seen this man before in my life. Had I?
I should have demanded to know who he was, should have clung to my composure. I was a woman of logic, a woman with a plan, a future, a purpose.
And yet.
I hesitated.
The air between us thickened and charged. My pulse hammered wildly against my ribs.
"Sir, you need to leave," Henry stepped forward, his hand reaching for his side where he always wore his smallsword. His fingers gripped the handle, but Thomas' hand stilled him.
"It is just some poor besotted soul. Come on friend, let's—" He reached his hand up as if to place it on the stranger's naked shoulder, but the man grabbed Thomas' hand in an iron grip, turning it and not giving Thomas a chance other than to contort his body with it or have his wrist broken.
"That's enough," Henry yelled, pulling out his sword, and I jumped back with a helpless cry.
The massive stranger, without letting go of Thomas' hand, kicked out, and Henry flew backward, straight into the altar, taking it down with him.
Roaring, Edward and two other men who had been seated on the pews rushed forward. With his free left hand, the man punched Edward in the nose. Blood spurted, drops landed on my dress, and I screamed again. The other two men had reached the intruder, but they didn't stand a chance. The first took an elbow into his stomach, bringing him to his knees, the second a kick that propelled him straight into the priest.
The man had to be completely insane, which was proven by his deep, maniacal laughter as he roared, "Is that all you have, you weakling peacocks?"
He turned in a circle, forcing Thomas to turn with him, while he hissed like an animal at the people who’d come to witness my wedding. As inconspicuously as possible, I tried to take more steps backward, away from the clearly deranged man, but my feet got caught in the train of my dress and I stumbled.
Instantly, the man let go of Thomas, kneed him quickly in the groin, then spun around to catch me before I fell.
“Let go, let go of me,” I wailed.
“Vaelora,” he repeated his earlier word, a name? Did he think I was someone else?
His fingers were like iron clasps around my lower arm. I tried to wiggle free, but there was no give. Deep, black eyes bored into mine with an intensity that weakened my knees and raised my pulse.
"Let go of her," Thomas moaned from the ground, his hand reaching up for me.
"Weakling," the man spat with so much venom and disdain that it sent shivers down my spine. "You don't deserve to lick her feet."
"Come," he demanded of me. Instead, I pulled on my arm, trying to free it.
Chaos.
The church had turned into a battlefield.
