Page 84 of Prisoner of Steel and Shadow

Since his back had been to them, he had no clue how Bast had managed to get himself in a headlock, but his head was pulled back at an awkward angle, one of his arms stretched up behind him in the assassin’s hold.

“Don’t listen to him, Ronan.”

“Shut up, Sebastian,” he growled, his eyes never leaving the masked face of the assailant. He’d taught countless warriors how to assess an opponent. How to seek out any manner or weakness in a matter of seconds. How something as simple as the way a man breathed could tell you everything you needed to know about his intentions.

This one was playing a game. He had a blade pressed against the exposed skin of Bast’s throat. He could have killed him several times over by now if that’s what he planned. That’s when Ronan realized this rendezvous had never been about killing him—that would have been a bonus.

This was about delay. Keeping him busy as long as possible, so he had no choice but to forfeit. And then, without the watchful eyes of the entire continent on him, Erebos could come after him and do whatever twisted things he had in mind.

Ronan was fucked if he didn’t make it to the arena in the next few minutes. Frankly, it would take a miracle to get him there at all.

Dousing the flame of his blade, Ronan slowly set it down and lifted his hands in the air. “Let him go.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” As if to prove the point, the man dug the blade into Sebastian’s skin, carving a line straight down the side of his throat, not stopping until he reached his sternum.

Bast tried not to cry out. His fever-bright eyes held Ronan’s stare as he fought against the pain. But he lost the battle, eventually screaming when the man dug the blade deeper.

Ronan vibrated with the need to act, but every idea he had to get rid of the assassin would end up with Sebastian getting hurt. He couldn’t take the chance.

If you don’t do anything, he’ll die anyway. He deserves better than a meaningless death when all he wanted to do was stand at your side.

A subtle shift in the darkness along the wall caught his eye. Ronan tensed but didn’t look away from the man grinning manically. The flash of blond shocked him. As did the face it belonged to.

Loren.

But was he friend... or foe?

It was hard to be sure. Everyone in this town had an agenda.

Catching his eye, Loren lifted a finger to his lips and took a tentative step forward. He would have sworn the man was silently telling him to keep the assassin occupied. Ronan prayed he wasn’t reading the situation wrong. He’d never forgive himself if Bast paid the price for his hubris.

Well... he’d said it would take a miracle. Maybe the Mother wasn’t done looking out for him yet.

“Tick tock, Butcher.”

Pouring every ounce of derision in his voice, Ronan crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side. “I’m sorry. Were you waiting on me for something? I thought you told me not to move.”

The assassin blinked, his dark eyes clouding with confusion. “I-I did.”

“Was that a question? Are you asking me?”

“No.”

“You know, for a man holding the knife, you sure don’t seem to know what the hell you’re doing. I don’t think you’re very good at this, mate.”

It was obvious the assassin wasn’t used to his victims talking back. Or not expressing any fear. Frustrated, likely seeking to reclaim the upper hand, he made a wild slash from Sebastian’s shoulder to hip.

Fuck.

Bast swallowed back a scream, his entire body jerking in pain as blood poured down his shirt. The unexpected spasm caused the assassin to lose control of his weapon, and it slid deeper into Sebastian’s belly.

Fuuuck.

Stomach wounds were dangerous. They were almost always fatal if the blade caught an organ. The man’s inexperience was showing, but somehow his incompetence was every bit as deadly as actual skill.

Loren used the momentary chaos as his opportunity. He jumped forward, kicking the assassin in the side of his leg and sending him toppling over, away from Bast. The dagger, still lodged in his stomach, didn’t fall.

But Bast did.

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