Dortak’s face was turning purple and veins were popping out along his temple.
Lahn repeated what he’d growled earlier.
Dortak kept gasping for breath, his hands pushing ineffectually at Lahn’s arm, his legs kicking out.
Lahn repeated what he’d growled.
Dortak made gurgling noises.
Then, quick as a flash, the knife moved and blood covered Dortak’s face as he howled.
I gasped, stepped back and hit bench so stopped.
Lahn pushed off him and up to his feet, tossing the knife down so it landed on Dortak’s chest, bounced off and clattered to the stone ground.
Lahn stared down at him then spit in his direction, the spittle landing on Dortak’s shoulder.
Then he turned and started to me.
I watched him move, my body shaking then I saw Dortak get up, still choking and my body froze as I saw Lahn had carved a deep,
gaping, curving gash from temple over cheekbone partially through his lip and across his jaw.
“Lahn,” I whispered and Dortak bent, snatched the knife off the ground, straightened and I shouted, “Lahn!”
Dortak charged and Lahn turned like I hadn’t shouted his name to indicate imminent danger but like I’d suggested he might want to look over his shoulder and observe the flight of a pretty butterfly.
Then his arm came up, he caught Dortak’s wrist that was connected to the hand that was carrying the knife, used it to swing him around and caught him around the throat with his other forearm. Lahn then twisted Dortak to facing this bride and he used the knife still in Dortak’s hand to slash another curving, deep gash down the length of Dortak’s chest, down, down nearly to his groin and then he moved Dortak’s hand and sunk the blade in Dortak’s side.
Dortak grunted in pain and my knees buckled.
Then Lahn pulled out the knife, let Dortak go, he dropped to his knees, hands to his wound and Lahn wiped Dortak’s blood off the knife against his hides. Then he tossed the knife well away.
Then he turned and stalked to me.
I tried to step back but nearly stumbled over the bench as he came at me and I tried to come to terms with the violent justice I just witnessed my husband dish out. Perhaps it was justified but it still freaked me out.
His long legs had him to me in seconds, he grasped my bicep, turned his back to me, swung me up, my legs automatically curled around his hips as he wrapped my arm around his neck and then he stalked out of the tent.
Welp. Guess that meant the games were over.
Yikes!
* * * * *
“Hold still,” I snapped at Lahn, who was sitting on one of the chairs in our tent and he kept jerking his head out of the way when I
tried dabbing his cut lip with the wet, soapy rag I’d managed to explain to Teetru I needed.
My eyes moved from his annoyed ones and I tried to dab at the blood again.
He jerked his head away.
“Lahn!” I hissed. “Hold still!”
He didn’t hold still. He tore the rag from my hand, tossed it on the table and came out of the chair with his shoulder in my belly.
I let out a gust of air as I went up then I went down as he threw me on the bed then I let out another gust of air when he landed on top of me.
“Lahn, we need to clean your cut lip.” On a wheeze I told him something he wouldn’t understand and clearly had no intention of sitting around and allowing me to do. It was a miracle I got him to sit in the first place. It only happened five minutes ago and I still didn’t know how I managed it.
His hand went between us and he yanked one panel of my sarong aside.
I knew where this was going.
“Lahn –”
“Rayloo,” he growled.
“Lahn! Your lip!”
That bloody lip (and his not bloody one, they luckily came in pairs) came to mine. “Rayloo, Circe.”
I glared into his eyes as his hand glided up the skin of my side.
Shit, that felt nice.
“All right, rayloo. I’ll rayloo, whatever the hell that means,” I grumbled, his eyes went soft and his hand went away from my side.
