I’d protested. I was well trained, a warrior, just as competent as Killian. I could protect myself, at least within the borders of Lara.
Don’t, my father had snapped. The word was so harsh and sudden, I jumped. After a quiet moment and a breath, he had added, You are too important, Issi.
And in that moment, he’d looked so broken, I hadn’t been able to utter another word—not to him, not to Killian.
A week later, and I was feeling trapped.
“Since you are so keen to spill my secrets, Commander, did you admit to fucking me too?”
“Stop using that word.”
He spoke with clenched teeth.
At least he was passionate about something, I thought. Still, his order only served to provoke me.
“And what word should I use?” I hissed. “Make love? Hardly.” I was being unkind, but when I was angry, I wanted the recipient of my wrath to feel it, and I knew Killian did. It was a trait I’d adopted from my mother, given that my father rarely expressed his frustration. “You seem to think what happened between us means something more.”
It was like he thought he was suddenly entitled to me, and I hated it.
“Am I so terrible?” he asked, his voice quiet.
My fists clenched, and there was a moment when guilt clutched at my chest. I shook it off quickly. “Stop trying to manipulate my words.”
“I’m not trying to manipulate you, but you cannot say you did not enjoy our time together.”
“I enjoy sex, Alec,” I said flatly. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”
They were sloppy words, but I meant them. I’d only chosen to sleep with Killian because he’d been there, and I’d wanted release. That had been my first mistake. Because it made me ignore other warnings, like his tendency to keep my father aware of my every move.
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“Killian.” His name slipped from my mouth, a warning. He wasn’t listening, and if there was one thing I hated, it was a man convinced that I didn’t know my own mind. “When will you learn? I always say what I mean.”
I started to step around him, and Killian reached for my hand. I wrenched free and punched him in the stomach. He groaned and fell to his knees as I turned on my heels.
“Isolde!” he huffed. “Where are you going?”
I kept walking into the thick wood; the leaves were soft beneath my feet, still wet from morning dew. I wished it were the middle of spring, when the trees were lush and green. I could disappear much easier then. Instead, I walked between pale, skeletal trunks, beneath a canopy of interlaced limbs. Still, I was certain I could lose Killian. I knew these woods like I knew my heart. I would make it back to the castle without him, much as I had intended to do before he followed me to the border.
“Idiot,” I breathed.
My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. I did not hate Killian, but I would not accept being caged. I was well aware of the dangers in the world, and I’d been raised to fight every manner of monster, even vampires. Though I was no match for them, at least I knew it. If it were up to Killian, our armies would be battling the vampires right now, and likely, many of our people would be dead.
As humans, we had no cure to fight their diseases, no ability to outrun them, no way to counter their magic or the monsters they’d awakened. We were lesser, and we would always be unless one of the goddesses answered the many and varied prayers offered by the devout—which was unlikely.
The goddesses had abandoned us long ago, and sometimes I felt like the only person who knew it.
My pace lessened as the smell of decay permeated the air. At first, it was faint, and for a brief moment, I thought I was imagining things.
Then, the cold crept up my back, and I stopped.
A strzyga was near.
Strzyga were humans who had died from the blood plague and risen from the dead. They were horrifying creatures with little intellect, save for their desire to eat human flesh.
The smell grew in potency, and I flexed my hand, turning slowly to face the desiccated monster.
It stood on the edge of the clearing, back bent, staring with hollow eyes and cheeks. Its sparse hair clung to blood spattered on its near-skeletal face. It stared at me and then sniffed the air, a growl erupting from its throat as its lips curled back to show elongated teeth. Then it gave an eerie cry as it fell on all fours and raced toward me.
I spread my feet apart, preparing for the impact of its blow. It launched itself at me, and as it neared, I shoved my hand toward it, deploying a knife I kept sheathed in a brace around my wrist. It sank easily between the creature’s ribs. Just as quickly, I pushed away, retracting my blade. Blood spattered my face as the strzyga staggered back, screaming at me, angry and anguished.
The blow would only wound.
To kill a strzyga, its head must be separated from its body then burned.
Now that the monster was weakened, I drew my sword. As the sharp metal sang against my sheath, the creature hissed its hatred before throwing itself at me again. It sank upon my blade, clawed hand slashing, tearing at my dress and skin. I gave a guttural cry as the pain registered, but it was soon overtaken by anger and adrenaline. I withdrew the sword and swung. The edge was sharp but resisted, lodging in the bone of the strzyga’s neck. I shoved my foot against its chest and jerked my blade free. As the strzyga fell, I sliced through its neck again, and when the body hit the ground, its head landed a few feet away.
I stood for a moment, breathing hard, my chest burning where the creature had shredded my skin. I needed to get to the medics. Infection set in quickly with strzyga wounds. Before I began my trek, I kicked the strzyga’s head, sending it rolling to the tree line of the clearing.
Returning to the castle injured would not bode well for me and my independence.
The air changed suddenly, and I twisted, lifting my blade once more, only to have it connect with another.
The impact surprised me, because I stood face-to-face with a man. He was beautiful, striking, but in a harsh way. His features were angled—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, a straight nose, all framed by blond hair that fell in soft waves past his shoulders. His lips were full and pillowy, and his eyes were hooded by defined brows. It was those strange eyes—blue, rimmed with white—that held mine as he tilted his head and spoke.
“What are you doing all the way out here?” His voice hinted at intrigue, silky in its delivery, and the sound made my stomach clench.
My brows lowered at his words, and I studied him further. He wore a black tunic secured with gold buckles and a surcoat of the same color. The edges were stitched with gold thread. It was fine work, but it was not made by my people—our designs were far more intricate.