Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 109477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
She darted at the two bringing up the rear, then ducked and jabbed, stabbing the first in the underside of his thigh. That spot hurt like a fucking bitch. He staggered.
The other got hold of her hair, and she stabbed him in the gut. He yanked hard, but she didn’t need hair, so she let him pull out as much as he wanted. It would grow back. She slashed him under the arm, kneed him in the balls, and wished she had another weapon so she could get him in both sides at once. Instead, she had to rip across his stomach, not as deep as she’d have liked, but it would take him out of the fight until he could heal enough to keep his intestines.
Another came from behind her, advancing before she could get away from these two. She grabbed the ornaments encircling the neck of Hair Grabber and yanked him closer. He staggered forward in surprise, holding his stomach. She quickly twisted and head-butted the one coming from behind to grab her. She slipped out from between them, catching the legs of the new guy. He staggered, tripped, and got tangled with Hair Grabber. They were not used to catching hogs, and it showed.
She sliced off the ornament she held and thankfully didn’t also have to slice off her hair. Hair Grabber let go to hold his stomach and shove off the newcomer at the same time.
She went for the first guy, his expression dark. He held his sword up this time, his legs set in a fighting stance.
The ornament, a sort of heavy amulet, hit him in the nose. He flinched too late, and the pain in his face registered. Before he got around it, eyes watering and squinting shut with the nature of the wound, she’d sliced his forearm, relieved him of his sword, and stabbed him in the shoulder because she fucking missed his neck. She yanked the light and well-made sword back out and threw it at the fourth one, who was wading into the melee. It would have to do.
She was around them in an instant, a moment away from a burst of speed, when magic froze her body, and she teetered over to land on her side. Fuck. In times like this, it would be really nice to have magic of her own. She’d own the world if she could compete in a fair fight.
A slow clap echoed along the path.
Her blade pulsed before curling over the back of her hand and into the spell. It kept growing, freeing her arm. Damn she loved this blade. Tarian was a fool for giving it to her.
Except…
Work for me just this once, she begged it. Couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like she had any alternatives. Just this once.
She held herself still as the blade returned to normal, hoping Tarian hadn’t noticed it elongate with the other males groaning and spitting and talking. She waited for Tarian to walk up close to her, his boots near her face, her anger burning hot.
“My goodness, little dove, you—”
She dug her knife into his calf, higher than she’d wanted. Wasting absolutely zero time, never having moved so fast in her life, she slashed down her body to cut away the magic and ran. Ran so hard and fast she could barely feel her legs. She just needed to get out of his range. Just needed—
Her legs locked up, and she was barely able to twist so that she didn’t fall on her face. But her knife still worked. She freed herself and hopped up again, then once more, struggling for distance. Trying to—
Her knife was knocked out of her hand, and her whole body was caught. Fucking magic!
She breathed hard, thinking about struggling. About twisting or inchworming or anything to get away.
Worry only about that which you can control, she told herself, needing to hear the words in her head. Not Zorn’s this time, but her own. Learn how to adapt to everything else.
She relaxed further. She’d lost this battle, but she had not lost the war. She’d see Tarian again. She’d kiss her way through those big guys, with the long hair and half man-buns. She’d kiss her way through a castle, if they took her to one. Through a dungeon. She didn’t give a shit. Until she died, he’d be constantly busy. Constantly.
She knew it was him by the shoes. And the limp. Then the lean. He was getting good at the leaning…
Her face was frozen, so she snickered in her mind so he could hear it.
Blood soaked part of his pants and dripped down his shoe to the ground. The knife had gone in deep.
“Ouch,” he said as he picked up her weapon. “Your love bites really do sting, dove. That one worst of all, I think. And look, now it’s my pants you’ve ruined! I could’ve just washed these, but holes? I can’t pull off a patch. It’s simply not my style.”