Wolf Warriors Duet

Chapter One

Leather encased Brandwulfr’s body like a lover’s jealous embrace. Perhaps it would be truer to say it suffocated his frame like a master assassin, killing him by inches as the humans could never do. Thick, padded leather underneath steel chain mail protected his torso while knee-high boots with greaves and bracers protected his limbs. All of it in jet black lined with gold threads and trims. A slave had nothing, but he’d managed to secure the best protection he could. His master had seen to the style, wanting his star fighter to look the part.

He could hear the wagers being made, the comments and speculation as people around him looked to profit from his death. Could the Barbarian Wolf survive the Gladiator Warriors?

Gladiator Warriors. Brandwulfr nearly choked on the title. He was stronger than all of them -- the humans, that is. Had he not defeated their best men? Even with the damned collar around his throat that kept him from shifting into his wolf form, he’d not merely defeated every man they’d set against him, he’d massacred them in a flurry of sword and shield. If he hadn’t been prevented from shifting to his battle wolf form by the cursed collar all shifters wore, he’d slaughter as many as he could before they killed him.

This was no battle, it was a game. A needless waste of sacred life. A game he played with deadly skill. As if the very Earth agreed with him, the ground beneath his feet seemed to rumble ominously. Not an overt movement, but the slightest tremor. It was likely the humans around him would never feel it. To him, it was a clear warning, heightening his already elevated senses for the coming battle.

As he entered the arena, a roar of cheers erupted over the nearly deafening music. The booming blast assaulted his ears but didn’t shake his pre-battle calm. With his mind firmly on the task at hand, Brandwulfr knelt to sift the sands through his fingers. Up close the grains were coarse, rough, and soaked in the blood of men. Like his soul.

A shot rang out, signaling the start of the match. Brandwulfr exploded into action, charging into the middle of the pack in a leaping sprint. The glory hound went down with one deadly arched stroke to the neck. Blood sprayed in a ruby shower, droplets wetting those nearby before they realized what had happened. Never stopping his forward momentum, Brandwulfr plunged his sword into the chest of his second target in a thrust of pure power. The force made his weapon stick in the man’s rib, but Brandwulfr yanked it free, shoving the man off with his foot.

Swinging his sword in a wide arc, Brandwulfr slashed out, using his shield to block a blow from one sword while the momentum from his own swing blocked the other, pushing the aggressive little human backward. Brandwulfr fought with intricate movements, a dangerous dance fueled by instinct and pride. Pride in who he was, who his people were. His feet moved in a choreographed ballet of death, leading his opponents to their doom with a carnivorous kind of beauty.

The second swordsman regained his balance, charging with a brutal yell. Engaging in the fight again, he rained down two-handed blows on Brandwulfr. It was a valiant try to drive Brandwulfr back while allowing his partner time to recover. With a devastating swipe of his shield, Brandwulfr sliced the man’s throat all the way to the spine. Blood sprayed over Brandwulfr’s face and chest like a fountain, the coppery smell washing over him along with the liquid, but he merely swiped at it with his forearm to clear his eyes. His vision was already red, his sole focus on one thing. Victory.

The remaining experienced fighter backed away. Too bad -- it was already too late. Swords clashed and sang with each bone-shattering blow, the crowd’s roar growing louder with each strike. The other man dropped his shoulder as he swung his sword in an arching slice, intent on taking out Brandwulfr’s sword arm. Dodging the blow was child’s play. Brandwulfr plunged his own sword into the human’s side as the man completed his downward blow. Blood poured from the wound like a thick crimson waterfall. Brandwulfr twisted his sword before pulling it free of the other man’s body. The fallen warrior screamed in agony, his face contorting with it. Brandwulfr had no pity.

The remaining man huddled against the wall, begging for his life.

Pick up your sword and face me. Die with honor, Brandwulfr bit out, giving the man room to maneuver if he chose.

Please, I’m begging you! I have a wife! Children!

Brandwulfr tilted his head. You’re not a slave then?

No! I was promised a quick payday. All I had to do was show up and they’d pay me once you were dead! I was never supposed to do anything! I had no desire to harm you! The man whimpered, clasping his hands in front of him.

"You… volunteered to be here?"

I was never supposed to have to fight!

This sniveling weakling had actually thought to profit from Brandwulfr’s death? Idiot. Before the man could cover his head with his arms again, Brandwulfr struck, driving his sword into the neck of the still-whimpering man. Not so much a quick payday as it was a quick death. Far more merciful than the human swine deserved.

The crowd cheered, flash lenses twinkling like thousands of exploding stars all over the arena once again, the masses getting their snapshot of history, an immortal representation of the victorious gladiator as he spat on his last victim. It all sickened Brandwulfr.

As his keen wolf gaze roamed the stadium, he sought the man responsible for this mockery. Rudolph, the man who owned Brandwulfr along with roughly half the shifter slaves fighting this night. Rudolph stood on the balcony above the arena, the place of honor reserved for the sponsor of the games. He was the perfect target. Only about fifty meters or so. One true throw of his sword, straight through the neck…

Then a flash of gold caught Brandwulfr’s eye. A young woman approached Rudolph’s side, grasping his arm. She wore a cloak of midnight woven through with gold. A beseeching look graced her face, as if she were pleading with him for something. Probably wanting Rudolph to give him to her as a prize. Brandwulfr sneered. It wouldn’t be the first time a highborn lady had sought to know the pleasures he could offer.

The girl was passingly pretty. In another life, he would have enjoyed introducing her to the carnal side of sex. In this one, if she were related to Rudolph in any way, she would die by his hand.

Her hair was bound loosely at the back of her head in a thick knot of shining gold. Skin of milk white shone under the harsh lights of the stadium, encased in emerald silk beneath the cloak. She was too thin for Brandwulfr’s taste, though she had potential. A little fattening up would definitely do her good. As she spoke to Rudolph, ruby red lips seemed to beckon Brandwulfr to taste.

He sneered. He’d taste her, all right. Throw her to the bed and fuck her senseless, taunting Rudolph as she called Brandwulfr’s name in pleasure. Judging by the way he urged her back away from the railing, she was definitely his woman. At the very least, she was important to Rudolph. He knew the danger. Even from the stadium floor, any of the gladiators could get off a lucky shot. Some, like Brandwulfr, could kill him with one toss of a blade.

Then she turned and looked at him. The full force of her gaze was like a punch to the gut. Piercing blue eyes filled with fear and compassion seemed to penetrate straight to his soul, burning like a brand where no other had ever touched.

Brandwulfr gazed at her with what he knew was stark possession. He’d always had a gift of knowing when his life would be forever connected with another. This woman, no matter who or what she was, would be a part of his life until the day he died.

* * *

Miranda couldn’t take her eyes off the magnificent specimen of a male in the arena before her. He was covered in blood and grime, sweat glistening over bulging muscles as his chest heaved in exertion. And he was looking at her as if she were next on his list of things to do and he intended to make their connection as unpleasant as possible.

She couldn’t really blame him, either. Her father used people like this -- profited from their suffering. Profited greatly. No other man in this sector of the entire planet could boast of such fine gladiators. Certainly none had as many shifters as her father.

This wolf shifter in particular had defeated scores of humans, which was why her father continued to raise the bounty on him. This man was too powerful, but Rudolph couldn’t simply kill him. No. He needed to make money doing it. Miranda loved her father dearly, but sometimes she was ashamed to be his daughter.

Why do you do this, Father? Why make him kill all these men? Miranda had tried to understand for several years, failing to do so. Why she thought her father would suddenly provide the insight she sought now, she didn’t know.

"I don’t make him do anything. He chooses to kill. Her father merely shrugged as he urged her back away from the railing. If he would choose not to kill and die himself, I’d be much better for it."

It’s the same as not giving him a choice! What being wouldn’t choose to live?

One whose life is so miserable he can’t stand to go on, he snapped, gripping her upper arms. Do you like all the nice things you have? The house we have in Sky City? All that you have is because of animals like that one covered in blood. Rudolph made a sweeping gesture, indicating the man who still stood below them.

Miranda couldn’t see him, but she still felt his eyes on her. It made her skin crawl.

Stop being so hypocritical and enjoy this evening with your father, eh?

Her father used the soft tone he reserved only for her. She might not like how slaves were treated, but she loved Rudolph dearly. And, after all, he was her father. He was a decent man. Surely he would come to see she was right in time.

In the background, the crowd cheered wildly, loving the gladiator others of his kind called Brandwulfr. A wolf shifter, he was larger than any man she’d ever seen. And the crowd worshiped him. Miranda tried to sneak another glimpse of him when her father wasn’t looking. She couldn’t be sure how much -- if any -- of the blood was his and how much was from the men he’d killed.

She watched in fascination as he scraped his blade on the sole of his boot, never acknowledging the crowd, taking his time with the post-battle ritual. Just when she thought he would return to the catacombs, he lifted his head, catching her gaze before she had the chance to look away. Intense, dark orbs seemed to glow with an eerie blue light as he gave her a slow, menacing grin.

Miranda sucked in a breath, her hand going to her throat in a defensive gesture. Somewhere inside, she knew showing weakness to this being was probably not the smartest idea, but she felt threatened on an elemental level, her reaction impossible to suppress.

As they stared at one another, Miranda was struck at how fine his features were. Under all the blood and grime lay a striking, masculine face. Prominent cheekbones and a strong chin were covered in dark stubble she was sure nothing short of a laser could contain. Inky black hair was pulled back, but several sweat-dampened strands stuck to his face where they’d come free. A patrician nose gave him a noble appearance she had never seen in any slave. Even most of the residents of Sky City looked less like an aristocrat than this man did. As filthy as he was from his battle, as well as his time in the catacombs, he had an air about him that bespoke power and authority. It was more than his skill in the arena. It was in the very way he carried himself. This man, Brandwulfr, might be a slave, but she’d dare any man to actually give him orders. If he obeyed, it would be because he wanted to. Not because they cowed him in any way.

With a mock salute, he sauntered off, shoulders back, his sword hand twirling his weapon absently as if he were readying for another fight. Miranda couldn’t help notice the play of muscles down his arms and legs.

Powerful, magnificent male…

Giving herself a mental shake, she tore her gaze away from him. That man was far too dangerous for her to let her guard down around. Even from this distance, Miranda had no doubt he could kill her if he chose.

Master. A small, elderly man bowed at the waist, not meeting her father’s eyes. I would respectfully request the healer be summoned. The new pup you purchased from Slave Master Ur was gravely injured. You will not recuperate your losses on his purchase if he dies before he has at least another three matches won.

Miranda knew the boy in question. Not more than sixteen summers, the young man had fought with honor, but had taken a hit right before he’d killed his opponent. Miranda remembered thinking it had to have been worse than it looked for the gladiator to limp away as he had.

And how many more fights will he have to win for me to get my losses back from the healer? If you can’t help him, the boy will have to work through it as best he can.

I’ll go, Father, Miranda said. My training is far enough along I should be able to tend his wounds.

Absolutely not, Rudolph snapped without hesitation. The catacombs are no place for you.

I’ll take a guard. Surely your own slaves are under control enough for me to go down there with an escort. She used the perception of control as a weapon to get her way. It was a shameless ploy, but Miranda didn’t like for anything to suffer, be it human or animal. She might consider her father’s slaves human, but she knew from experience Rudolph considered them animals. If she could help ease the young man’s suffering, she would. It’s the least I can do. As you said, I owe everything I enjoy in life to them. What is a few hours of my time to tend their wounds?

Rudolph looked hard at her for several moments. As ever, the thought of losing money got to him, as the slave had no doubt intended. Very well. He pointed a finger at her, a clear warning. But you stay away from Brandwulfr. That wolf is more dangerous than any slave I’ve ever owned. He may well be the most powerful gladiator ever to set foot in the arena. The beast would squash you like a bug.

Of that, she had no doubt.

Don’t worry, Father. I’ll see to the injured and leave quickly.

Not wanting Rudolph to have a chance to change his mind, Miranda left abruptly, motioning for her personal guards to follow her. There were supplies she needed before she entered the catacombs, but her father was right. Safety first and all. She was there to help, but Miranda was under no illusion any of the men in those tunnels would differentiate between her and any other sky dweller.

See to it the cells are locked down, she told the old slave. I’ll get my equipment and meet you at the entrance.

Yes, mistress. And many thanks to you.

Miranda hesitated. This slave is special to you?

The old man hesitated. He… is a relation.

A shiver went down Miranda’s spine. The reality was, slaves were never allowed to form family units, but that didn’t mean the concept was completely lost on them.

How close a relation? The man kept his eyes down, respecting her station, but didn’t answer. She realized then the old slave had likely manipulated her father into buying the boy. To keep a loved one close? She stepped closer to him, placing her hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. I swear, on my honor, your secret is safe with me. I only wish to help.

With a resigned sigh, he finally confessed, He’s my son.

Pulling in a breath, Miranda closed her eyes. The reality of their world never failed to confuse her. She’d been sheltered for the most part, not allowed to interact with those in her father’s possession. No slaves worked in their home, and her mother had steadfastly refused to allow her only daughter near the arena, deeming it too dangerous. The only reason she was here now was to step up her campaign with her father to, if not free the slaves completely, at least treat them decently. Now, she forced herself to look at the pain her luxurious life caused others. It also made her realize how much danger she’d be in if she set foot in those catacombs.

What’s your name, good sir?

He looked up at her, finally meeting her eyes with his startled gaze. Almarr, mistress.

Our secret, Almarr, she said, gravely, formally. I’ll take it with me to the afterlife.

Aye, mistress. Aye. Almarr bowed several times, his relief obvious. And thank you.

Thank me after we see his wounds healed. He may be beyond my skill. I’m still an apprentice.

Your willingness to enter that place of death gives me hope enough, mistress, he replied. Only, be wary. I’ll watch your back, but I’m old. Cover yourself well. Never let them know who you are or you’ll be at their mercy.

As Almarr spoke, Miranda was reminded of the look on the gladiator’s face as he gazed at her. A mixture of hot, malicious, and possessive so intense she’d gone weak. Even the reminder made her shiver in fear. She had no doubt Almarr was right in his assessment of the situation. Going to the catacombs could well spell her doom. Still, she had to try to help Almarr’s son. She owed it to the young man. To all the slaves under her father’s control.

With a sigh, she turned to leave. Her guards escorted her to the suite she occupied while away from Sky City. Choosing her supplies, medicines, and instruments with care, she packed everything into a small bag. Hopefully, she’d have everything she needed. Hopefully, she could get in and out without anyone figuring out she was the daughter of their tormentor.

Chapter Two

Rumor had it a healer had entered the catacombs to see to the wounds of the slaves who’d fought today. Brandwulfr knew several of the wounded wouldn’t live to see the next rising. Helpless anger threatened to choke him. To see his brethren broken for the amusement of those who thought themselves better infuriated him. How little a shifter’s life meant to these people.

Whoever the healer was had his work cut out for him. The moans of those who suffered echoed in this place like ghosts haunting the dark caverns before the corpses even cooled. At least ten men were near death this night. It would be interesting to see what healer had been sent and how that healer treated his people. Who would be deemed valuable enough to help? The slaves always attempted to treat one another as best they could, but the lack of clean water and bandages hampered their efforts. In this place of death and filth, when the healer prepared his equipment, the sharp scent of antiseptic and soap seemed to pierce the night like an arrow. Among other scents.

He narrowed his eyes. A human female?

Who in their right godsdamned mind would send a woman into this place? That could not possibly be the healer. Her fresh, clean scent wafted down the corridor, mingling with the aroma of her supplies, causing more than a little stirring among the mostly female-deprived captives. Gods have mercy on the poor little fool should she be let into the wrong cell. And why the fuck did he care? If the woman was stupid enough to come here, then she deserved what she got. Even considering the safety and well being of a human made him shake his head in disgust at himself. After all they’d done to him and his people, why should he give a fuck?

The catacombs were sectioned off into cells. Some of the favored gladiators -- like the jaguar woman, Aya -- had private quarters. Others were grouped into threes and fours. The new additions were housed in a group cell holding twenty to thirty men at any given time. There were two other men in Brandwulfr’s cell, all sniffing the air for that intoxicating scent, the same as he was. Brandwulfr paced his cell, unaccountably anxious. There was something about the scent that tickled his senses. Jasmine and honeyed clover combined with a clean, fresh rain called to him. It was insane; nothing had ever affected him like this, least of all a woman who was obviously out of her mind. While in this world, he existed only to kill, to make everyone afraid of him and what he could do if he chose. Every battle won, every time Rudolph sent reinforcement guards to contain him was more time to study their strengths. Their weaknesses. Having his attention shifted so far away from his ultimate goal -- that of freeing not only himself, but his people as well -- was irritating. And completely unacceptable.

You need to hold as still as you can, Haidar, a soft voice full of compassion said.

Was she treating the new pup who’d just won his first battle? Then she was fighting a lost cause. That young man wouldn’t live out the night. Probably not the hour.

This will hurt, but the medicine will dull the pain as much as possible.

A few moments later, a grunt followed by a low moan echoed through the cavern. The fresh scent of blood overpowered the soft scent of the woman, along with the bitter stench of sweat. Whatever she was doing to the pup must hurt like the devil, as well as reopening his wounds.

Normally, Brandwulfr would ignore the other’s discomfort. Showing kindness to anyone made them a target. But knowing Rudolph had actually sent someone into the shifter’s domain to torture them anew sent a blinding fury through Brandwulfr. Yet, even through his consuming rage, he scented anger all around him as the others came to the same conclusions. How many more ways would Rudolph devise to torture them?

One advantage they all had over their captors was knowing the catacombs inside and out. They knew the weak spots in the rock walls, in the reinforced concrete barriers. Over the years, they’d made a network of tunnels from one cell to another so mates could be together, or those who had disagreeable cellmates could find more pleasant company. And so they could plot escape attempts, though the outside walls and gates had always proved too difficult to breach. When he heard footsteps within the walls, he knew others were on the move. Apparently there were some who had decided to take matters into their own hands. He’d pity the poor girl, but what good would it do? Besides, she obviously had none for Haidar.

With a growl, Brandwulfr threw himself down on his bunk, his forearm going over his eyes. If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was this. There was too much riding on his shoulders right now. In this compound alone, he’d identified at least forty shifters of varying species. Every week, some died, those numbers replaced with fresh slaves. Shifters all. That was why he’d allowed himself to be captured five years before. Unfortunately, getting captured had been the easy part. The collars the slaves all wore prevented them from shifting to their animal forms. In the heat of battle, some couldn’t control the defensive mechanism, an instinct that had been part of their species for many thousands of years, and ended up dying when the metal collar refused to expand.

If he could find the gateways to his world, he could close them down, or at the very least, quarantine those regions on his own world so no one wandered into the danger zones unexpectedly.

A terrified scream broke his concentration. Instantly, he was off his bunk and racing into the tunnels. Without even truly scenting the air, he knew who the sound came from. The little bitch! He’d taken off before he even made a conscious decision to and that griped his nuts nearly as much as the fact he was allowing her to place his entire reason for being here in jeopardy. Even now, the stench of her fear called to him, demanding he protect her. He didn’t even know who she was!

The dark and dusty murk inside the stone walls gave him a clear path to the young pup’s cell, where he knew the woman was. Even still, he had to shove several men out of his way, baring his teeth and snarling with every step. The closer he got, the more he could hear until. Let me go! Her demand was shrill, terrified. I’m only trying to help him. He’ll die if you don’t let me tend his wounds!

He’s dead anyway, one of them said. Brandwulfr recognized his voice. Kane, he thought the man’s name was. "The only thing you’re going to help is our lusts."

I mean no harm, she cried, her voice shaking, fear rolling off her in waves. I only want to ease the suffering of the wounded.

Oh, you’re going to ease our suffering, all right, another said, laughing. Arsin, Kane, and me are going to take you here. When we’re done, there are several other men who could use your attention.

But you don’t understand! Her pleas were growing louder, more frantic. I -- Her voice was cut off abruptly by a sharp slap!

Brandwulfr burst through the small grate into the pup’s cell, sending plaster, stone, and dust flying. Three wolves were on the tiny robed figure. The woman lay on the floor, her black cloak twisted about her legs and arms as the shifters used her garments against her, effectively binding her. Arsin’s hand was still raised from where he’d obviously backhanded the woman.

Brandwulfr noticed something else. The cloak the woman wore was woven through with gold thread. He squinted as the three wolves turned in his direction, partially blocking their prize, but Brandwulfr got a good look at her stricken face, confirming his suspicion. The woman at Rudolph’s side! Did the bastards know who she was, or were they out to beat and rape any woman who happened into the tunnels?

In a flash of rage, he forgot his earlier mental rantings about the stupidity of a woman coming here. Forgot everything but the opportunity that had been dropped into his lap. A plan formed, an audacious one, and he ran with it. With a deafening roar, Brandwulfr charged the three wolves. The startled looks on their faces didn’t save them from a beating. Never in all his time here had Brandwulfr attacked another shifter without being threatened first. He hated what he was doing, hated turning against his own kind, but really, any man who would take a woman by force -- any woman -- didn’t deserve his pity.

With teeth bared he struck, fists flying, connecting with bone as he smashed the face of Kane. The others backed off, but not before Brandwulfr landed a fist to the kidney of one and a kick to the balls of the other. "She’s mine!" he roared.

Even as these three backed off, more rushed through the tunnel opening, barreling over all of them to get to the woman they saw as fair game. It seemed as if every slave in the place had taken to the tunnels to get to the female in their midst. He even saw a couple of the female shifters in the endless stream of bodies pouring from the tunnel into the cell. Brandwulfr shoved men out of the way into the walls, but more took their place. Within moments, the place was packed with gladiator shifters in their prime. Men growled and snarled, fighting for the right to take the unlucky human woman who’d stumbled into their midst. All the while, Brandwulfr’s frustration built.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the female. She’d finally gotten herself untangled and was physically dragging young Haidar into one corner as far away from the fighting as she could. An older man kept himself in front of her and the boy, fighting back any who got too close, though it was obviously taking a toll on him. The woman kept her body in between the melee and the wounded man, protecting him as best she could. Brandwulfr blinked, trying to deny what he was seeing. Was this woman, the daughter of the man he hated most, actually coming to the aid of one of their kind? With a growl, Brandwulfr redoubled his efforts to get to her side. He had to convince the mob she was under his protection. He could figure out the whys of it all later, but right now, she was in danger.

Fists flying from men all around them, there wasn’t a male in the cell who wasn’t clambering to get to the female. When Brandwulfr connected several punches and kicks, not caring if he fought dirty, those around him began to give him a wide berth. He was as careful as he could to not severely injure anyone, but more than one man fell to the ground, writhing in pain when he didn’t get out of the way fast enough. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, as did the sour tinge of sweat as the fighting continued.

Finally, Brandwulfr stood in front of her and her charge. Snarling, he crouched, ready to pounce on any who dared challenge him. Reaching behind him, he snagged the girl’s arm, yanking her up and behind him, clamping her to him with one arm until she stood flush against his back.

Any man who touches her will have to fucking go through me, he bellowed.

You can’t fight us all, someone in the middle of the mob challenged. You may be deadly in the arena, but all of us together can take you.

Finding the man who’d spoken wasn’t hard. Most of the men around him took a couple of steps away from him when he spoke. The shifter was of decent size and musculature, but was at least a head shorter than Brandwulfr and a good fifty pounds lighter. Clearly, he was depending on the others to back him up, help him bully Brandwulfr into giving him his way.

That’s probably true, he acknowledged. But I vow to you, you’ll be the man I go after first, and I guarantee I will kill you before the rest of the pack kills me. It was a calculated risk, but Brandwulfr knew these men. Most of them had no desire to fight their own kind. They did so because they were forced to. The ones who did so willingly were either promised their freedom or the freedom of a loved one. The two or three who relished fighting their own kind knew they didn’t have a chance against Brandwulfr. He knew every single one of them, knew which ones he’d have to take out first. Which ones needed to die instead of returning home. He eyed those few now, singling them out silently while the others backed off. As expected, none of them wanted to fight him. Even the one who’d spoken up slipped out before he could be confronted again, though the damage had been done. He’d issued a challenge and had his bluff called, had shown considerable weakness to a society that worshiped strength. That man would be lucky to last the week.

One by one, everyone who didn’t belong in the cell crept back into the tunnels, returning to their respective quarters. The whole thing was over with rather quickly, but it still seemed like an eternity before he’d finally reached his prize. Brandwulfr didn’t let his guard down until he was certain no one remained to ambush him. Muttered curses and sharp warnings filled the chamber as the gladiators left. They obviously weren’t happy about the turn of events, but Brandwulfr had control of the situation. For now, at least.

The woman at his back trembled against him, her fists bunched in the waist of his tunic. Did she honestly think he meant to protect her instead of keeping her for his own? If so, then he had a distinct advantage. He could possibly bargain with her -- his protection in exchange for his freedom. This might be a better opportunity than he’d first recognized.

Thank you, she said in a tremulous voice. I thought they --

He cut her off abruptly, whirling around and grabbing her by the throat. Slamming her against the wall, Brandwulfr bent down to look her straight in the eye. You’re not out of the woods yet, woman, he growled low, his voice quiet but