“If you give me room, I’ll return to you within minutes.” Nearby guests made outraged sounds as hunters elbowed their way toward the dance floor. The orchestra went quiet, one instrument at a time. A hush fell over the ballroom. The wiser attendees dispersed.

One sword-bearing male stepped onto the floor, then another, and another. Each was focused on Rune.

His only trepidation was due to the female at his side. “If you’re vulnerable, my thoughts will be divided.” He unstrapped his bow.

“I can use telekinesis while I ghost.”

“Can you focus it enough to pick out my foes alone? I mean this. Trust me, Josie. Let me show you what I do.”

She hesitated. “If you get killed, I will kick your ass so hard.”

Though Jo dutifully moved to the wall and ghosted, her nerves made her outline flicker, so she remained visible in flashes.

She was a wallflower who wanted to be out on that ballroom floor—so she could fight.

Everyone had fled the area, except for a few idiot spectators peeking out from doorways and balconies, scandalized by the promise of a clash.

Bounty hunters advanced on Rune, surrounding him. How could she not fight for him? They kept coming, their circle tightening.

One gave a battle yell. Heart in her throat, she watched them charge.

Utterly calm, Rune strung five red arrows—poisoned ones. He turned his bow horizontal and let them fly. The arrows fanned out in the air, drilling through the first line of men, then the second—then the third.

Fifteen men down! They moaned on the ground, dying from Rune’s agonizing poison.

He nocked five more arrows, repeating the shot. At least a dozen dropped.

Like a blur, he swept through the fallen, collecting arrows from the last wave of bodies. As he refilled his quiver, he kept one arrow in hand to stab necks, wasting even more swordsmen.

He was faster than blood splatter, dodging jugular sprays. Compared to Rune, his attackers seemed to be moving in slo-mo. They plodded and slipped on the bloody glass.

She’d seen him in action, but never like this. Never against so many opponents.

With his quiver full, he vaulted to a balcony. Three couples were hiding there. Though Rune gave them only a passing glance, the males gazed at him with terror. The females sighed over him, about to swoon with desire. One reached for a meager touch of his leg.

Rune’s next round of arrows flew in a curving trajectory. He’d arced them to make impossible strikes, then leapt down for another arrow harvest. Not a drop of blood marked him.

Her worry faded. On occasion, he’d spoken of his fey and demon halves, one more methodical, one more aggressive. The methodical fey was at the fore as Rune coldly and efficiently destroyed the threat. Only a few were left standing.

He was magnificent. And he knew it. In the middle of a kill, he turned to take in her breathless, awed reaction.

The cocky dark fey winked at her.

She’d never wanted him more.

Once he finished taking out this trash, she’d kiss those smirking lips and nip the bottom one till he groaned. When they were alone, she’d strip, revealing the lingerie she’d bought today.

And if she let him have her tonight? He’d told her he would take pains to get her ready. She imagined him petting her with those amazing fingers until she was wet and aching, then he’d work his big shaft inside her. When he entered her to the hilt, would his kiss steal her cry?

As she fantasized about his ripped body thrusting and moving over her, she started to pant. Her heartbeat quickened. That’s my guy. She needed him desperately.

Tonight. Tonight she was going to surrender—

Steel kissed her throat.

FIFTY

A soft gasp.

Rune whipped his head around. He’d defeated all the swordsmen who’d engaged him, but one had sneaked in to target Josephine.

Gods damn it! Why had she embodied?

The male yanked her back to him, a knife against her fragile neck.

This was why Møriør had no mates—because Orion allowed no vulnerabilities. Rune couldn’t have a more glaring one than his need for Josephine.

When the blade nicked her tender skin, he all but lost his mind. He bared his demon fangs, yearning to maul that male, to savage him with poisonous claws.

Blood slipped down her throat. Black blood.

From drinking his. A thought arose that he couldn’t even acknowledge.

Despite the danger, she wasn’t afraid. Her irises darkened and the shadows around her eyes deepened—a predator signaling her threat.

In his panic for her, Rune had forgotten that she was no mere female. She was a force. She was death and death rolled into one, and she looked like she could barely wait to strike.

Rune told the man, “Release her. Or die a nightmare death. I’ll warn you once.”

Movement on a balcony. He whipped his head up.

Saetthan.

Rune’s half brother strolled out, clad in formal attire with their father’s sword drawn. A pair of royal guards flanked him. “What a mess you’ve made, baneblood.” He regarded all the bodies with an amused expression that resembled Rune’s own.

“I thought you were behind this,” Rune said. “Ill-planned and ineffectual is your signature.”

Like a dragon twitching its tail, Saetthan twirled that sword.

Rune expected more guards to file out on the balcony, yet none came, leaving only the two. He never got opportunities to strike his half sibling this unprotected. “Next time I hope you’ll send me a real challenge,” he called. “Are funds tight in Sylvan?”