Page 122 of Spoils of war
A single drop of blood, sliding down my cheek like a tear.
The man watched it fall. Watched me.
And then he smiled.
As if was a victory to him. He was proud of himself. Probably felt so powerful. A knife, a little blood, a bag of gold, and he thought he’d won. Maybe he’d buy a horse. A warm meal.
I would’ve loved a warm meal too.
But I wouldn’t have hurt someone for it.
“Here,” Will called, his voice shaking. “Take it. It’s yours.”
The sound of coin hitting dirt followed.
Everything we had—gone.
One of the men crouched to gather the coins, stuffing them into his pockets. The one holding me loosened his grip. Just barely. A breath of space.
Then he dragged me back in. Pulled me flush against his side, pressing every inch of sweat and filth into me, and he lowered the knife.
But no part of me felt relief.
“See?” he murmured. “Was that so hard?”
Will was watching me. His eyes wide, burning. Desperate. And when I turned back to the man holding me, I saw it.
I saw it in his eyes.
He’d already won.
But he wasn’t finished.
“Hold them,” he ordered the others, then looked down at me with a smile.
I’ve never seen a smile like that. Not before, not since.
Will barely had time to move before they grabbed him. Hands locked around his arms, yanking him down into the dirt. Aran thrashed like an animal, snarling, kicking, desperate to break free.
Then a fist connected with his jaw.
Hard.
His head whipped sideways. He dropped. Blood smeared his chin and his body sagged in their grip. Will kept fighting. Twisting. Kicking. Trying to throw them off, but he wasn’t strong enough. And they outnumbered him.
My captor tilted his head, watching. Admiring it.
Like it was some kind of sick entertainment.
“Let’s make them watch,” he said.
Then the ground shifted beneath me.
Heat kissed my skin. Just a flicker. Not violent. Not yet.
It was the kind of warmth that fools you. Like sitting too close to the hearth in winter. Like sunlight after days of rain.
It felt soft. Familiar. Safe. But it lied.
