Page 26 of Yasmin and the Yeti
Boulders blurred past. His huge body moved with impossible speed, each powerful stride eating the distance between himself and his mate. Snow sprayed in his wake. His claws extended fully, ready to rend, to kill, to protect what was his.
Her second scream ripped through the air. “RHAAL!”
Closer now. Desperate. Terrified.
A roar tore from his chest, vibrating through the frozen air—a warning, a promise of violence to whoever threatened what was his. The sound echoed off the mountains, silencing every creature for miles.
His heart clenched like a fist. The raw fear in her voice ignited a rage so intense it burned in his blood, and he threw himself forward, faster, harder, the wind roaring in his ears.
He burst through the rocks into a small clearing, his momentum carrying him forward in a blur of white fur and lethal intent. And then he saw them.
Broc. Holding Yasmin by the arm. Trying to drag her away.
He skidded to a stop, snow spraying around him. His breath came in harsh pants, forming clouds in the frigid air. The world narrowed to this single, impossible moment.
Not a random slaver or predator. Broc. His clan-brother. Ayla’s mate.
His past, physically holding his future.
His instincts howled for blood, for vengeance. Old guilt and fresh rage warred within him, threatening to tear him apart, and his chest heaved with the effort of restraining himself.
“Let. Her. Go.” Each word rumbled from his chest, deep and dangerous.
Broc didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, still gripping Yasmin’s arm, though his stance was protective rather than threatening. His eyes held no fear, only a deep, weathered sadness and something harder. Judgment.
“So you can fail her too?” Broc asked roughly. “Like you failed Ayla?”
He staggered back a half-step at the sound of his sister’s name, his roar dying in his throat.
“She was my mate,” Broc said, his grief raw and exposed. “And you left her to die.”
“I tried—” he started, the old defense rising automatically.
“You weren’t strong enough,” Broc cut him off. “And now you’ve taken this small one—this fragile one—into your cave? To what end, Rhaal? So she can die when you fail her too?”
Yasmin struggled against Broc’s grip, her small body twisting as she tried to reach him. Her eyes found his, wide with fear but not of him—for him.
“Ayla would have wanted her to be safe,” Broc said, his voice softer now but no less devastating. “With the clan. With the healer. Not with a broken male who couldn’t even save his own blood.”
The cruel words clawed at his restraint. It would be so easy to charge, to tear Broc’s throat out, to reclaim what was his with fang and claw. His muscles bunched, preparing for the leap.
But in Yasmin’s eyes, he saw something that stopped him cold. Trust. Complete, unwavering trust.
If he attacked now—if he gave in to his instincts—he would prove Broc right. He would be nothing but the monster they all believed him to be.
With a monumental effort, he forced his body to stillness. He straightened to his full height, his massive body becoming not a weapon poised to strike, but a mountain—immovable, certain.
His eyes fixed on Broc, no longer blazing with rage but steady with a deep, unshakable conviction. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His stance said everything.She is mine. I will not fail again.
Broc’s expression shifted, uncertainty creeping in where certainty had been. The Rhaal he remembered—the broken, guilt-ridden shadow who had fled into exile—would have attacked by now, would have given in to his instincts.
This Rhaal was different. Controlled. Present.
“You’ve changed,” Broc said finally, his voice barely audible over the wind.
“Yes.” A single word, heavy with meaning.
Yasmin took advantage of Broc’s distraction to wrench her arm free. She stumbled through the snow towards him, her movements clumsy with cold and fear.
