With every step Amara took away from him, a hollow ache opened wider in his chest.
He set his jaw, anchoring himself to the trees and the memory of her kiss.
Half an hour, he told himself again.Half an hour and I’m going in.
The forest whispered around him. Birds chirped. Wind rustled in the upper branches.
But something was wrong.
He couldfeelit.
His instincts, carved by years of war and survival, tightened like a wire. The leaves rustled again. But this time, it wasn’t the wind.
Asnapechoed sharply through the underbrush.
Rhys spun, sliding the hilt of his sword from the sheath, the stillness gone in a blink.
Then came the rustle of boots — too fast, too loud, then nothing.
The silence was sharp and unnatural, and every muscle went still.
Then, from the brush one man stepped out.
Then another.
And a third.
Clad in leathers, armed with blades. They weren’t guards of Murdoch Castle, that was certain. Nor were they mercenaries. These men were predators, not protectors.
Rhys’s blade sang free as he shifted his stance, eyes narrowing.
“Ye picked the wrong bloody tree line,” he growled.
They didn’t respond. Just circled him.
The first lunged, and Rhys moved like a man possessed.
Steel clashed. Rhys parried low and twisted, driving his elbow into the attacker’s jaw with a crack that sent him sprawling.
He ducked under a second blow from the next man and sliced upward, catching his thigh.
Blood sprayed and the man howled.
The third came at him from behind.
Rhys spun, barely catching the edge of the blade along his ribs. Pain flared, but he welcomed it. It sharpened him.
He kicked out, caught the man in the stomach, and dropped him.
Too many for open ground, he realized. He backed toward the tree trunk nearest him, blade held ready.
One of the wounded men rose, staggering.
Rhys didn’t give him a second chance. His sword arced down, clean and final. The man dropped.
The second came again.
Rhys turned his body and slashed out. With a cruel twist of wrist his sword cut across the man’s chest.