Page 82 of The Crown's Shadow
Two men sprinted, mounting two of the nearby horses. They disappeared into the forest in a flash, their horses galloping into the darkness.
“Moris! Armen!” Dani shouted. “Follow them!”
Moris nodded, pulling Armen with him as he took off.
“Dani?” Graeson asked, his fingers wrapping around his scimitars hanging on his back. His gaze bounced from the soldiers to the beast and then to the man slithering away.
The swish of metal sliding out of leather cut through the air. “It might not be Domitius, but at least I get to kill someone,” Dani said.
The beast within him smiled, its craving for vengeance palpable on Graeson’s tongue.
He slid his scimitars out of their holsters and stood in one smooth movement. Without another word, they moved.
The first two men couldn’t even raise their swords as Dani and Graeson’s blades sliced through the air.
Graeson drove his blade through the next soldier’s rib cage.
Every individual Graeson’s scimitar sliced through was marked in his memory. There was a reason for each death that he caused. Every victim who fell prey to his wrath was doomed to die from the moment they decided to harm an animal, belittle a woman, or get in his way. And there was one man in particular whose blood his blade craved even more than the rest. But where had the wrangler snuck off to?
A flicker of movement flashed in the corner of his eyes.
Graeson called out, “Dani!”
She hissed, kicking a man in the gut and knocking him to the ground as she spun and sliced her dagger through another’s neck. “I got this. After all—” grunt, kick, “I’m used to cleaning up after you.”
With a roll of his eyes, Graeson tumbled forward.
In his haste, he hadn’t seen the animal cowering beside the cage. The animal roared, standing on its hind legs with its wings spread out. But Graeson’s bloody blade was not meant for the creature. He ducked, then dove.
Pushing himself off the ground, he rounded the corner of the cage. His head swiveled, and his gaze swept the area, searching for the wrangler.
An object on the ground caught his attention. Smirking, he swiped it just as he saw a shadow moving in the forest. He struck, the whip snapping in the air.
A hiss followed, then a crash.
Graeson sprinted forward, whip in one hand, scimitar in the other. At the edge of the tree line, the wrangler tried to get up.
Again,the monster in the back of Graeson’s mind demanded, and Graeson’s hand twitched around the whip’s handle.
Again!
The whip fell from Graeson’s hand.
He stormed forward, and his foot fell atop the man’s ankle. Graeson dug in, twisting it into the dirt.
Within Graeson’s mind, the monster’s door cracked open an inch, and its anger and rage slipped out. Red flooded his vision. He pulled at the back of the wrangler’s collar, yanking him up.
The man yelled out in pain, and the sound reverberated through Graeson’s body.
Graeson snickered. “How does it feel?” He asked as he wrapped his other arm around the handler’s neck and tugged. “To be whipped? To be struck? To have your life’s fate in someone else’s hands?”
The man opened his mouth to speak, but he choked on air as Graeson tightened his grip around his throat.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think I cared?”
And whether it was the monster within his mind fueling him or his own anger, Graeson didn’t know or care. His scimitar slid across his throat, and the wrangler’s body hit the ground.
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