Page 23 of Unravelled
Blood seeped from the wound, darkening the fabric of his sleeve. Without hesitation, Mira gripped the arrow and snapped the shaft cleanly near the wound. Tharion let out a raw cry of pain, his body tensing beneath her hands. Mira’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her hands, covered with Tharion’s blood. She twisted to see their men rush toward the cart, fumbling at the latches. They were breaking it open. For weapons. For protection.
She and Tharion exchanged a glance. They both knew. The guard yanked open the chest. Empty. The moment stretched, then shattered as fresh panic swept through the group like wildfire.
Hooves pounded against the earth. Ren’s horse tore past in a blur of motion, mud spraying as he held the reins, circling the group. "Fight with your swords! We outnumber them!" His voice was a blade, sharp and commanding.
He barely glanced at her. "Tharion! Her carriage!" Then he was gone, vanishing into the chaos of ambush.
Mira’s pulse hammered against her ribs. Her breath came too fast, her hands shaking. She had nothing, no weapon, no armor.A firm grip closed around her arm.
Tharion. Standing, his sword drawn, his face tight with pain. His hold was steady despite his wound. He didn’t speak, just pulled her with him, pushing forward, shielding her as they wove through the chaos.
Swords clashed. Soldiers fell. Somewhere, someone screamed. Mira stumbled, nearly slipping in the churned mud made from dust and blood beneath her feet. But Tharion kept her upright, his grip on her arm unyielding.
They moved in bursts, darting past the chaos, ducking beneath swinging blades, pressing through gaps before they could close. A Kharadorian reeled toward them, clutching his stomach where his leather armor had been split open, eyes wide with shock. Tharion shoved him aside and kept moving.
A sharp whistle. Tharion spun and pulled her to his chest. An arrow buried itself in the wood where she had been standing a heartbeat before, vibrating from the force of the shot. Her breath caught in her throat. Tharion’s head snapped towards the shot, scanning the battlefield like a predator. He let go and moved, slipping through the chaos like a shadow. Mira barely registered what was happening before she spotted him closing in on the archer too late, hidden in the press of bodies, already reaching for another arrow. Steel flashed. The archers body went stiff, then crumpled.
Tharion staggered as he stepped back, breath ragged. The wound in his shoulder was still bleeding, the dark patch spreading down over his leather breastplate, but he didn’t stop. He knelt, yanked the archer’s bow from their fingers, and turned. Without hesitation, he tossed the weapon to Mira. The quiver followed, slung from the dead man’s shoulder.
Did she know how to use this?
Her fingers tightened around the wood of the grip. The weight was familiar. Her sharp eyes locked onto a Kharador dragging an underguard behind a burning cart.He couldn't have been more than seventeen years old. Without hesitation, she raised her bow and let an arrow fly. A sharp cry confirmed the hit.
She did.
???
The night hummed with stillness. A silver mist curled across the ground, rising in tendrils around Mira’s boots. Shadows pooled at the edges of the practice ring, swallowing the world beyond. The torchlight flickered once, dim and distant, painting everything in shades of bone and ash.
She exhaled. The air kissed her skin with an icy whisper, slipping beneath her clothes, raising goosebumps in delicate swirls along her arms. Her fingers curled tighter around the crossbow, the worn grip familiar against her palms. Ahead, the targets loomed like ghosts, faceless, unmoving, half-lost in the dark.
“You call this difficult?” she murmured, voice soft, almost amused. She could make this shot blindfolded.
A low hum stirred the silence behind her. A sound like velvet over stone, familiar, indulgent. “Is this too easy for you, Mira?” The rasp of his voice slid along her spine like smoke, curling warmly in her chest. She turned her head slightly, enough to catch the ghost of him in her periphery, his shape outlined in gray scale, all shadows and angles.
“Oh, absolutely,” she purred, every syllable dipped in heat.
He stepped closer, the world seeming to hush around them. A breath. A pause. “Try one-handed,” he murmured.
The words spilled against her ear like silk. His hand slid over hers gentle, coaxing, guiding. Down. To him. The moment stretched, suspended. Her fingers brushed heat beneath the fabric of his waistband.
His breath caught, sharp and quiet. A moan from his chest, low and rough, vibrated against her fingertips. He bowed forward, pressing his face to her shoulder, his arms encircling her waist like gravity itself.
“Am I distracting you?” he asked, voice a broken whisper of silk and smoke. It wasn’t the darkness that was the challenge tonight.
She smiled, lips parting in slow amusement. “Not at all.” She squeezed. “I’m just enjoying you.” She stroked him, slow and languid, her movements precise, like aiming. His body shuddered.
He clutched her tighter. “Mira…” he groaned, her name escaping like a secret. He moved his hips, rocking subtly into her hand, breath catching again. Her eyes stayed locked on the shadowed target ahead. A breath. A beat.
“I don’t think you have it in you,” he whispered.
She laughed. “The shot?” she said. A pause. He groaned, the sound rumbling from deep in his throat as her fingers tightened.
Her name slipped from his lips again, reverent. “Let’s make a wager,” he breathed. His voice was darker now, threaded with desire.
“If you miss…” His fingers traced slow, hypnotic circles against her hips. “I get to draw out every moan and curse from your lips. However,” he punctuating the word with a sharp thrust. “I.” Another. “Want.” Another.
“And if I make it?” He stilled, breath trembling. “Then I’m all yours,” he said, voice rough “and I’ll beg you” he said, voice rough, low. “On my kneesif that’s what you want"
