Page 31 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
Weston doesn’t seem to register the close call. Stark fury has swallowed him up, narrowing his focus, and now he won’t stop until he destroys something. He stomps to where the larger man lies on the ground, grabs hold of his arm, and twists. A sharp crack ricochets through the clearing.
The man screams.
I stare from my place in the grass, my jaw slack. Eight. That’s eight bones Weston has broken now in my defense.
When I manage to catch the breath my fall knocked out of me, I haul myself upright. But the smaller man catches myhair and yanks, wrenching my head back. Pain ignites in my scalp. A line of chilly fire is pressed to my throat.
It’s...the knife. Digging into my neck. I go still.
Weston whirls to face us. And freezes.
Silence pummels my ears. How’d the smaller one retrieve the knife so quickly? And how’d he grab me so fast?
Bad luck, I guess. Nothing more.
My captor pulls my hair so hard my spine arches. Tears gather in my eyes. The knife pricks the skin beneath my jaw.
“Alverton said we could bring her back a little scratched up,” my captor says, “if necessary. Which means if you don’t stay over there, he’s going to get her back half-dead.”
Cold rage overtakes Weston’s face. His mask has been torn away in the scuffle, and in the light of the fallen torches, he looks both terrifying and hewn from gold—gold hair, golden eyes, golden skin stretched over hard features. When our gazes lock, that single moment of eye contact drives the breath from me all over again.
He’s so unapologetically, cruelly beautiful. I can see it even with a knife pressed to my throat.
“If you spill a drop of her blood,” he says, dark and deadly, “you won’t leave this clearing alive. I swear it.”
The man gripping me hesitates, I canfeelit. “I didn’t realize we’d be up against a pugilist,” he mutters.
“Well, guess what.” Weston’s fists flex at his sides. “You are. And thatpugilisthas no qualms about addingmurdererto his calling card.”
For long moments, no one moves, except for the injured man. He struggles to his knees, his face ashen, his broken arm cradled gingerly in front of him. A dribble of red leaks from one nostril.
Weston doesn’t pay him an ounce of attention. His eyes flicker between my face and the blade at my throat. A fleeting arrow of fear races across his features, then disappears behind a steely wall.
He takes a step backward. Then another.
Panic jolts through me. What is he doing? He’s not...abandoning me, is he? But then I realize. My luck. He’s giving it room to work.
“Wait,” the man holding me says. “What’re you?—”
Weston must cross out of range, because a streak of white and brown swoops from the darkness. My captor shrieks. Wings and talons flash. The knife vanishes from its place at my throat as the man scuffles with what looks like...an owl?
Fortuna’s blessings, I don’t waste time figuring it out. I just hurtle toward Weston, who meets me halfway and catches me by the shoulders, holding me at arm’s length to stop me from burrowing against him.
A pang stabs through me. Even now. Even here.
“Get behind me,” he says.
“I’m not going to?—”
“Birdie,” he growls, a naked command. “Get. Behind me. Now.”
I squeak and station myself behind him, sticking close enough to neutralize his luck. I won’t abandon him, no matter what he says.
The smaller man finally bats the attacking owl away. The bird sails off into the night, leaving a handful of bloody scratches behind.
The man’s lip curls. He scrubs at his ruined cheek and fixes on me. “Witch,” he says. “Demon.”
I blink.Witch. Huh. That’s one I haven’t gotten before.
