Page 144 of Cursed Shadows 4

Still, I keep one hand limp in the air, as though ready for him to take it in his and ghost a kiss along my knuckles. It’s a dainty gesture—and I hope it fools him enough to see nothing more than my defeat, my submission, because my other hand is fisted in the dirt.

He scoffs something annoyed before he reaches out for my wrist. He grips it, firm, then yanks me up from the earth.

The sheer strength in that pull is enough to sprout aches in my shoulder, and to propel me into his chest. My chin knocks off the leather wrappings of his pecs.

The moment I collide with him, I kick up my knee to knock him right in his bits.

But he sees it coming.

Before the hit can connect, Daxeel strikes out at my thigh—and he grabs me, hard.

Eyes blazing in the dimness of the mountain, he shoves my knee further up,all the way, and slams it into my own midsection. A grunt chokes me.

The impact reverberates through my leg before he pushes me away from him.

I stagger back.

His words come with a rush of instinct, to hunt, to fight, “Hurt yourself?”

“Not enough to stop me.”

I hiss at him before I throw out my fist—the one clenched at my side since I landed on my back, a fistful of gravel and dirt.

His eyes, his eyes, his eyes.

A spray of dirt and twigs and ice hits him in the face. Before he can even cringe away from the assault, I’ve turned on the heels of my boots and bolted through the drapes of leaves.

I run.

The shouts of annoyance burst through the woods, an urgency that ripples through the air before each one of the dark males chases after me, the rainfall of bootsteps pounding on the dirt.

I got enough of a head start.

I barrel straight through the lilac drapes.

Snow dusts over me, coats my hair, tickles the tip of my rosy nose. But I don’t falter. Instead, I lock in on the distant song of gentle moving waters.

A stream.

I cut right to chase it downhill.

Behind me, the whips and smacks of branches hitting the dark ones is a coarse tune of drums and battle-shouts that’s blended with the punishing stomps of boots smacking against the earth.

Most branches don’t touch me.

My litalf connection to nature herself aids me.

It swings branches away in a sudden gust of wind right before I sprint through; it tugs away tree roots arched from the ground before I can trip over them. Why she helps me now, I don’t know, but her aid gets me closer to the gentle rush of water.

The stream, it’s there, just ahead, I am so close.

I just have to reach it, chase the downhill current, then fall into whichever river it leads me to, or drop down the waterfall it might end in.

I have to get far away from the summit.

Urgent, hopeful, my boots slam into the muddy bank, and my muscles clench, ready to pounce into the freshwater.

But my jump is startled as a sudden flare of fire splits my thigh.

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