Page 52 of Dark Rival

As if the Ancients intended his death this way, no matter the time, no matter the moment.

Allie screamed, twisting in the man’s foul, inhuman grip, as the sword sliced cleanly and deeply into Royce’s shoulder. She screamed again, almost expecting to see his left arm fall to the ground, severed from his body.

Royce turned, thrusting. The swords met, screaming.

Allie saw his left arm hanging oddly, and she sought his pain—but felt nothing. Either Royce was too enraged and adrenalized to feel such a blow, or he was immune to the kind of pain that would cause other men to pass out.

And then he seized his shortsword with his left hand, stunning her that he could use his arm at all. And he thrust the shorter weapon across the man’s neck, slitting it. Blood sprayed.

Bleeding heavily, Royce seized the dying man’s ax and turned to face her captor. His silver eyes blazed. He dropped the longsword and shifted the ax to his right hand.

Allie went very still.

She didn’t feel pain now. She felt murderous rage.

And she felt her captor hesitate. His fear welled.

Royce smiled and it was terrifying. He was breathing hard, and still bleeding heavily. The upper part of his tunic was crimson. But it was the ruthless look in his eyes—the ruthless heat in his soul—that made her hold her breath. Nothing was left of Royce except a barbaric warrior.

He strode forward, still smiling.

Her captor’s heart rushed and he pressed his dagger to her throat.

Allie choked.

“Draw her blood and ye die,” Royce said, not stopping. He closed the distance rapidly, ax in hand.

Her captor hesitated, and Allie felt his fear escalate wildly.

“Ye die anyway,” Royce snarled, and he hurled the ax at them.

Allie froze as the blade whirled at them, whizzing through the air. The ax sailed over her head—she felt it brush her hair—and it cleaved the man’s face in two.

He staggered backward and screamed, releasing her.

She leapt away, tripping. Royce strode past her and with his sword, he impaled the monster through the heart. Then he stood there, breathing hard, leaning on the blade, his left arm hanging uselessly now.

Allie got slowly to her feet.

He turned, jerking his sword free of the corpse. He sheathed it and looked at her, his eyes glittering insanely—like a warrior maddened from battle.

“Let me help you,” she whispered, shaking. She wasn’t sure the old Royce was present anywhere in the medieval warrior now. She wanted him to come back to her, but looking at him, she wasn’t certain that he would.

But he was very badly wounded. Another man would be unconscious now. She had to save his arm—and his life.

But she couldn’t find his pain.

Royce stared at her, his eyes hard and wide and bright. Allie felt small, female, defenseless. Then the hot silver rage began to glitter less furiously. That wild sparkle began to dull. She felt his frenzied heartbeat slowing slightly. He didn’t speak but he was coming back to her and Allie knew he was seeking sanity.

He breathed and said, “Did he hurt ye?”

“No. You’re hurt, not I.” She had to heal him, but she was wary. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she walked up to him.

Royce nodded, panting, and turned to his men. Now that the brief battle was over, every knight in the garrison had surged into the ward, bearing arms. “There’ll be nay more attacks on Carrick. Triple the watch. Take care o’the dead.” He looked at Allie harshly, his gaze still overly bright. Abruptly he strode past her.

His pain blinded her.

Allie breathed hard, shallowly, shocked that he was still standing. Then she ran after him. Royce was still in a savage, warrior mode, but he was feeling the effects of that terrible blow and he was bleeding badly. Now that she could feel his pain, she was pretty certain his arm was partially severed from his body. He was just too enraged to feel it completely yet.