Page 125 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Five searing claw tips pierced his shoulder, ripping through his coat, and then Everinne screamed. She was ripped from his arms a second later.
Atlas watched, helpless, as Everinne was dragged toward the window. She flailed and thrashed as one of thebaukvisttwisted her arm in a horrible angle and yanked her across the unevenfloorboards. Her keen of agony fueled a fathomless rage, and Atlas grabbed the clawed hand tearing into his flesh, wrenching himself free from its spindly grasp.
He leapt across the splintered furnishings and reached for the iron stoker that had been mangled and contorted.
It wasn’t the best weapon, but it would have to do.
The moment his fist closed around the rod of cold iron, his skin hissed and the stench of charred flesh filled his nose. He ignored the burning pain, didn’t give a fuck if his entire hand melted off, he’d be damned if he was going to let that fleshflayer take his mate.
Atlas heaved the stoker behind his head, then slammed it down with a fury, severing the monster’s arm. It yowled in agony, snapping its jaws and swinging aimlessly with its other gangly arm. Black blood spurted like sticky ooze from its hacked off member, sliding down the walls as it lurched away from the window. Its blood coated the oak floors like oil, staining them like spilled ink. Everinne toppled forward, clutching her arm to her chest, her eyes wide with fright.
Anotherbaukvistappeared at the window where the other had fallen back. Claws tore through the roof as gaunt hands and arms reached between the sparse thatches of woven hay, grasping and clutching, desperate to flay the flesh from Atlas and Everinne’s bones. The two by the door lumbered forward, their tongues lashing the air with each raspy growl.
They were surrounded.
Atlas grabbed Everinne’s chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “When I say run, you run.”
“No.” She shook her head violently, a line of determination creasing across her brow. “I’m not leaving you here.”
He grinned. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Atlas—”
“Stop arguing with me.” He kissed her hard, knowing it would never be enough. “Just promise me you’ll run.”
Her mouth opened, then closed and he took her silence as acceptance.
His shoulder was on fire, his shirt stuck to his skin, the metallic tang of his own blood filling his nostrils as it slid down to his elbow. He grabbed the hilt of the stoker and raised it high—the skin of his palm was charred, the flesh melding to the cold iron, the pain white hot so beads of sweat formed along his brow. But he didn’t care. He would only ever care about one thing.
Her.
Everinne.
Always.
Atlas charged toward the twobaukviststaggering into the hut. He didn’t spare Everinne a glance as he yelled, “Run!”
Thirty-Eight
Everinne hesitated.
“Now, Ever!”
Atlas’s voice crashed through the bond, loud and demanding and full of urgency. She knew he was strong, knew he was more than capable of handling himself, but he was without a dagger or sword. He was armed with only an iron poker for the hearth, and though she was certain he could hold them off and stand his ground, he was simply far too outnumbered.
She stole one final look at him, watching as he swung the iron rod through the darkness like a blade of reckoning, piercing and gutting thebaukvistwith cutthroat accuracy, like he’d been born with a weapon in his hand. His movements were effortless and precise. Every jab, every slash met its mark. He was beautiful to behold, a warrior prince of Prava.
Only when something warm and thick splattered across her cheek and the bitter stench of rancid blood overwhelmed her did Everinne run.
She bolted for the door, crying out in anguish as the bond tugged fiercely on her heart, demanding she return to her mate’s side. Each step away from the hut was a strain on her soul,the ache so keen and deep, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to catch her breath again. She stumbled down the dilapidated stoop, tripping over the uneven stairs as she grappled with the air to remain upright. Frozen air burned her lungs as she rushed blindly into the forest, branches snared her hair, tangling in the loose tresses like the angry nails of a hag. Spindly tree limbs smacked at her face and clawed at her coat while gnarled, overgrown roots rose from the dead winter ground, determined to twist her ankles and slow her down.
The forest did not want her to leave.
Everinne dared a glance over her shoulder.
The hut was overrun with thebaukvist.There were so many, she could no longer see the swooping thatched roof or the chimney. They crawled all over it, covering every inch with their spoiled flesh, elongated jaws, and beastly claws.
Fear lodged itself in the back of her throat and she screamed one name.
