Another man raced up behind him. She switched her attention, fired again. He, too, fell to her bullet. She'd never purposely hurt anyone before—not with the intention of utterly destroying—and would have thought she would feel guilt and sadness. All she felt was savage satisfaction that she'd protected her man.

For a moment, she thought she saw sparks of pride in Vasili's violet eyes. Then he spun from her and rejoined the fray. If she'd thought him brutal before, he soon proved her wrong. Now he was ferocious. He gave no quarter. Showed no mercy. Moved with lethal grace, blades slicing and dicing. Men fell all around him, and every so often he looked back at her. To make sure she was watching?

Was he . . . showing off?

She nearly grinned. He was. He really was. And she was impressed. Here was a man who would always be able to protect. He would defend with a strength few possessed. He would—

Someone grabbed her from behind, hard arm winding around her neck, choking, hot breath fanning over her cheek. The other arm batted the gun out of her hand.

"Who are you?" a male voice demanded at her ear.

"Let me go," she snapped.

"What are you? A Walker? Yes, I think so. I saw you appear. I saw your weapon. Saw you help that bastard king."

This was not Vasili's man, then. No panic. She'd trained. She knew what to do. Rather than tug at the arm choking her, as instinct demanded, she reached back and jabbed him in the eye. His hold loosened, enabling her to turn. Immediately she slammed her knee between his legs, and he doubled over.

She kneed him in the face, sending him flying to his back. When he hit, he gasped for breath he couldn't quite catch. As she approached him, withdrawing her knife, he regained his bearings and kicked her, hard. Now she lost her breath and stumbled backward and he was able to hop to his feet.

"Bitch."

He flew toward her. To his surprise, she met him in the middle. He was able to disarm her as they punched and dodged, punched and dodged. She landed three hits. He landed one, and for a moment, she saw fireflies dancing around her and had to spit out blood. But she didn't slow or stop or cry or panic. And soon she landed her open palm against his nose. Crack. Blood sprayed and he fell.

An unholy roar sounded behind her. Then there was a whirl of black, a hard breeze wafting over her, and she could only stand there, amazed, as she realized Vasili was on top of the man and beating his face into pulp.

At first the man struggled; then the struggling ceased. Vasili continued to punch and punch and punch. Rose approached him slowly, gently, and flattened her hand on his shoulder.

"Stop now, darling," she said. "Yes?"

He did, as if her voice had penetrated that fog of rage. Panting, he swung narrowed eyes to her.

Blood and mud were caked all over his bruised face, the rain dripping over him and streaking both along the rest of his skin. He was brutal and all the more beautiful for it.

"You're all right?" he demanded.

"Yes. You?"

"Yes."

"But he hurt you," was the ragged reply, as if he couldn't believe that fact.

"I'm fine. I've endured worse during training."

"But he hurt you. I saw him." With that, Vasili turned back to the man and punched him again.

"He's already dead," she told him gently. No way anyone could survive that kind of beating.

"But he needs to die again." Another punch.

Rose tugged him to his feet, forcing him to face her. For a long while, they simply stared at each other, the rain pouring between them, the darkness thick, their breath rough and misting.

"You came back early," he said, and reached for her. Gently, so gently. His fingers traced over her bruised jaw.

There was a tingle, that ever-present ache. "I couldn't stay away. I . . . missed you."

Before he could reply, a hard voice called, "The rest have fallen back, my king."

Vasili's hands didn't leave her, but he did move his gaze to the newcomer. "Gather their dead and send them back home with a message. 'Attack again, and the same will be done to your families.' "

She looked and saw Grigori, the monster from last night. He nodded, his red eyes bright, and swung around to instruct the men.

"You won," she said to Vasili, returning her attention to him.

"Yes."

"Against Greer?" Had the old king tricked Jasha into agreeing to wed one of his daughters, and then attacked while everyone was complacent? "Or Walkers?"

Vasili gave an abrupt shake of his head. "Neither. The other realms heard of my alliance with Greer, and attacked to prevent it. He warned me they would try, but I didn't believe him." He dropped his forehead to hers, his hands spanning her waist, and tugged her close. "I saw you here, amid the battle, and I almost died. We have to work on your timing, sweetheart."

Sweetheart? She melted against him. "You have to admit I saved you."

He snorted. "I'll admit no such thing. I saved you."

Now she snorted.

His heated gaze traveled the length of her, and he licked the raindrops from his lips. "You're wearing a dress." He sounded shocked, awed.

"And heels. Not that you'll get to enjoy them. They're trash now."

"They were for me?"

A nod.

"I love them."

"I'll love them when you peel them off me."

"My little Rose is eager. I'm a lucky man. But I'll never hear the end of bringing a female into battle."

"You didn't bring me. I brought myself."

"You are never to admit that." Harsh, rough again. "Promise me."

He would rather be teased than reveal the truth? Why? He'd once told her that he never lied, that he didn't care about consequences. But he kept doing so. She's mute. She's a slave. For her.

A hard shake. "Promise, Rose."

"Promise." She wound her arms around his neck, so happy to be here, enjoying him, touching him. So happy that they were both alive. "Can we go to your bedroom, get cleaned up, and argue about who saved whom there?"

He placed a soft kiss at the base of her neck, where her pulse hammered wildly. "Oh, yes. But you should prepare to admit defeat, love. The things I'm going to do to you . . ."

Chapter Eight

The battle had taken place right outside the palace, so the walk to Vasili's wing wasn't a long one.

And yet to Rose, every step was torture, every second an eternity. People tried to stop them along the way, but Vasili kept moving, dragging her behind him, directing the intruders to Jasha and Grigori, the two he'd left in charge.

Finally, they reached his chambers. When she was inside, he released her, faced her, and leaned into her. She tingled, expectant. Only, he didn't touch her. He flicked the door with his wrist, sending the wood slamming closed. Then he straightened—and still he didn't touch her. He pivoted on his heel, gaze locked on her until the last possible second, and freaking walked away.

What the hell?

There was a wet bar in the corner, she noticed. He poured two glasses of that amber liquid and returned to her, one hand extended. She accepted with a small smile. A fire blazed in the hearth beside her, the heat licking over her wet skin, making her crave this man so much more.

"What is this stuff?" she asked just to break the taut silence.

"Medicine." He drained the contents, and she did the same. Then he claimed both glasses and returned them to the bar.

Warm and sweet, the medicine slid into her stomach and quickly spread through the rest of her.

The little stings and abrasions she'd acquired began to heal. "How are you so advanced in this way?" Her world had nothing that healed instantly. "Yet so antiquated in others?"

"We were once so highly advanced we managed to destroy our sun and most of the population."

A few steps, and they were facing each other again. "What you see now is centuries of rebuilding."

"Oh. Neat." Shaking with anticipation, she glanced at the four-poster bed. "Do you want to . . ."

"Yes, but we can't. Not yet. We need to talk."

Guttural tone, ominous words. She licked her lips, nervous and achy at the same time. "Okay.

What about?"

"Outside, you mentioned other Walkers." His eyes blazed.

A stark reminder of what she needed to tell him. "Yes." Now she gazed down at her feet, cold seeping through the heat. His safety came before her pleasure. "Why do you want to know who they are and when they come?"

"That's not important now. We need to—"

"Why?"

He sighed. "To protect my people."

"How do you protect them from Walkers?"

Silence.

She looked up at him through the shield of her lashes. He plowed a hand through his hair.

"How?" she insisted.

"I killthem."

He'd stated the words so simply, without a hint of remorse; she could only blink at him. "Without knowing their intentions?"

A nod. Stiff, suddenly angry.

Clearly, she couldn't tell him when Nick would come. Not yet. "Why?"

"They're dangerous."

"I'm not. Others aren't."

"You're different. They aren't." Firm, flat.

"How do you know?"

"Rose!" Hard fingers twined around her upper arms and shook her. "That doesn't matter. And I've changed my mind. I don't want to talk about the other Walkers. Let's discuss the fact that you showed up unannounced. Again. And in the middle of a battle, no less."

Having him this close, finally touching her, yet not skin on skin, was complete torment. Her breathing quickened, and goose bumps beaded. Her chest constricted, even as her belly quivered. She loved looking at him. Especially now, as water dripped from his hair and caught in his eyelashes. As color deepened his cheeks, and mud and blood streaked his bare arms and torso.

"No. Let's continue talking about the Walkers. I met with one," she said. "And you're right. Some of them are dangerous. This one told me he's been talking to others, and they want to plan a way to destroy this world. He has an idea to join them, to team up with others who share the same birthday week, and each bring their weapon of preference and strike, so it's one tragedy after another here, and there's no time for you guys to protect yourselves. But that's because they're scared. If you showed them a bit of compassion, they would—"