It was clear that one of the guards had somehow noticed Jaren and was hoping to capture and question him. He’d have laughed if he’d had the air to do so. Matherin guards were just as cocky as the soldiers he’d encountered in the past, and it would always lead to their downfall.
Sulian’s biggest error was training his forces to fight men. He almost felt bad for his alley attacker. The man had no way of knowing his feeble human skills wouldn’t be that impressive when it truly mattered.
The guard probably expected Jaren to go for his arms or face since that would usually be someone’s first instinct. Instead, Jaren grabbed the man’s leg and twisted his ankle up viciously in a direction it was not meant to go while simultaneously digging his elbow into his calf. The man yelped—actually yelped—and released his hold just enough for Jaren to duck his chin and shove him back.
Jaren spun and was on his feet within seconds, anticipating the guard to have drawn a weapon. The group he’d been tailing all carried swords.
The first thing he noticed was the man was not armed. The second thing was the man was not in a uniform. Instead, he was dressed almost casually, apart from the hooded cloak pulled far over his face. Jaren could barely make out the general shape of his jaw, but it was hidden under a mask of some sort.
Definitely a guard.
The third thing he noticed was the man’s stature. He was small, but as Jaren knew from experience, that didn’t mean he was necessarily weak. He’d fought more than his fair share of opponents back home who were half his size and still kicked his ass. Jaren tilted his head, sizing him up. The man made no move to escape.
He found himself tempted to grin. This could be fun. Deciding to keep his dagger sheathed at his side, he rushed forward. He’d expected to catch the guard by surprise, causing him to upset his equilibrium and respond too slow, but it didn’t happen.
The guard reacted instantly, dodging Jaren’s advance and jabbing his elbow straight up into the side of his throat. Following the hit, the guard continued using the last of Jaren’s momentum against him and attempted to spin his arm around behind him to dislocate his shoulder.
Tapping into his enhanced speed, Jaren was able to twist out at the last moment and distance himself several steps. The movement, however, caused his hood to fall back and he smirked when the guard immediately retreated a step. That’s right little human, I’m not what you thought I was.
But again, instead of running or attempting to arm himself, Jaren watched as the man simply widened his stance and reassessed his target. Good luck.
He found himself hoping the guard stood a chance against him. After the disappointing bout with the pathetic scout on the coast, he was itching for a good fight.
They both darted forward and met with a vicious flurry of motion. Jaren chose not to tap into his speed again, challenging himself to beat the guard on his own level. But as the man continued dodging most of Jaren’s hits and landing almost the same amount, he grew increasingly irritated.
He’d never met a Matherin able to take him on for this length of time. He was actually breaking a sweat, and his excitement over a good fight swiftly turned sour.
Enhancing his speed just slightly, he started lashing out hits faster than the guard could block. Hit to the shoulder, kick to the thigh, blow to the arm, the side, and the head. One right after another. He could almost feel the man’s mounting frustration, and it fed the beast inside him.
He landed yet another hit to the side of the man’s head, but instead of stumbling back, the guard used the movement to his advantage and spun a kick into Jaren’s side so hard, he was fairly certain he’d bruised his spleen.
The hit knocked Jaren to one knee, and he bared his teeth in a snarl. What the actual fuck. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had been able to land so many hits on him, and it pissed him off.
He instantly saw red and barely let the guard recover before he pushed up off the ground and, reaching for his dagger, barreled straight into him.
VERA
Snarled. He’d literally snarled at her like some cornered animal, exposing slightly elongated canines. She was certain the sound would come back to haunt her in a nightmare later. She’d heard the guards tell stories of the “fanged people” of Bhasura, but she—apparently falsely—assumed they were nothing more than stories.
But it wasn’t just the sounds and teeth that made him seem predatory. Everything about him, from the second his hood fell back, screamed Magyki.
He had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a chiseled jaw clenched in anger. Every feature was well-defined and sharp. Several small scars marred his face and pulled slightly at his honey-colored skin, but they only seemed to enhance his appearance. His body towered almost a foot over her and was topped with a mess of black waves that fell and curled around his pointed ears.
But it was his eyes that had caused her to stumble. She had tried to regain her footing, but she’d grown tired and moved too slowly. And faster than she could react to, he’d lunged up and practically smashed his body into hers with incredible force.
Vera had barely registered his movement before the fight was over. It was so abrupt; she wasn’t even sure she understood exactly how it happened. One minute she was landing a kick to, what she hoped was an important organ, and the next she was being tackled by a rabid beast into a filthy, alley wall.
She raised her head but was unable to move her body when he slammed his forearm against her chest. She imagined the sensation was similar to how a battering ram might feel. As he pinned her to the wall, his other hand simultaneously held a dagger to her throat.
Energy nearly depleted and even more out of breath from his hit, Vera tried to inhale, but was rewarded with a stinging sensation at her throat followed by the trickle of blood as she nicked herself on the blade.
She struggled to resist the temptation to release the breath back out, knowing with every movement she made, she’d only continue inviting the dagger to dig deeper into her flesh.
He growled, pushing his arm harder against her chest, every inch of him radiating fury and promising nothing but violence. “Who—”
Suddenly cutting himself off, she watched creases appear between his eyes as his brow furrowed. He cocked his head to the side in an almost animal-like way. He pulled his head back slightly, arm still pinned against her, and glanced down. To her horror, she realized his forearm was flush against her breasts—her unbound breasts.
His eyes flicked back to hers before dropping to her neck. Without removing his arm nor his dagger, he lowered his head to the side of her exposed throat and inhaled deeply. The sensation caused gooseflesh to dance across her skin.
Was he…smelling her? Dear gods, she didn’t want to know what she smelled like after a fight. At the same time, Vera became painfully aware of the tickling sensation of his dark, unruly hair against her cheek as an earthy smell entered her nose. Like freshly cut wood and summer rain.