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He looked to the exit and cursed. Two of his men were in the act of escaping.
A roar tore from Fadon’s throat, followed on the heels of a feminine scream from behind him. Lucinda, the watcher. Ongar, she would be killed in this melee!
Desperate indecision ate at him. His own rut was pushing to the surface, and Fadon knew that if he gave into that beast, he would lose all logic. The result would be death. As the strongest alpha here, he would end up killing everyone who got between him and Sierra.
He saw Lucinda cower before Darius and his brother grabbed her. Fadon, feeling the call of Sierra’s safety, cursed, knowing who he had to save—his brother’s betrothed.
Outside, fighting had broken out. Snow flew at wild angles, blurring everything. But Fadon’s vision had never been clearer. First, he found Sierra, who was struggling to get on her feet. She was practically naked, only torn patches of her shift covered her.
Growls and grunts and shouts competed with the furious wind. He spotted Demos, who was in front of Sierra now, his stance protective. Archon and Hargo were leaning forward, their hands in front of them, claws extended, preparing to scratch and tear into the Servant like birds of prey.
Fadon cried out in pain as someone shoved him in the kidney. He fell in the snow, then grabbed his accuser by the ankle, pulling the bastard down with him. It was Yorkus.
“Yorkus, damn you, listen to me! I command it!” Fadon shouted, spit flying out of his mouth.
But Yorkus was also too far gone, possessed by the rut. His pupils were fully dilated, and he wore a mask of pure insanity. Yorkus raised a meaty fist, and as fast as lightning, slammed it hard into Fadon’s face, cracking bone. Fadon’s head whipped to the side, his eyes and nose pressing into the snow, where he instantly caught the scent of slick. Her slick.
His heart pounded, and time slowed to a standstill. Take, take, take, Fadon’s blood sang. He stood, his muscles filled with power. He picked up Yorkus by the throat and threw him. He had to find Sierra. Now.
Ribbons of blood stained the snow as he searched for her, pacing. He felt like a bull caught in a pen. Behind him was chaos, his men lost in the rut. He passively observed them. A few were fucking their hands, some howling, most fighting their fellow warriors with raw brutality. He walked on, trying to locate her scent.
He heard the female, who was now out in the cold. The watcher. A scream, a terrible sound, rented the air, then cut off as if sliced by a knife. But he didn’t turn around. He walked on. He knew her life was beyond saving now.
His nose picked up Sierra’s scent, that sweet, sweet scent that had his blood burning, only to lose it again from the blasted wind. There were no footprints to follow, only his senses could track her. He’d only seen Demos briefly during the whole nightmare. And since Fadon had never been able to pick up the bastard’s scent, he had to follow what little logic his brain had left.
Ahead, bushes gave way to pines. It was where he would go if he were the Servant.
“Demos!” Fadon called. “Demos! Come out!”
But there was no answer.
He picked up her scent again and followed it. His legs broke into a run, and he could hear the steady puffs of his breathing. He thought he’d heard boots crunching behind him, but when he looked back, there was only the snowy ground and the shadows of trees.
His lungs filled with air, his muscles filled with strength. His heart pumped like a hammer as he picked up speed, his focus razor-sharp. The rut was building, and his cock hardened painfully against his heavy balls.
A streak of white ran crossways up ahead. Demos’ robes. Fadon changed his direction, circling around to meet Demos on the path. The plan worked.
“Release her. Now,” Fadon said, facing the Owl Servant. Both men had come to a halt, their breaths creating harsh puffs of smoke from the cold air.
In the Servant’s arms was Sierra. Even standing yards away, Fadon could smell her sweet scent. His blood soared with need. But he tamped the desire down and forced himself not to move.
She was alive, he saw. Whole, no blood he could see. She was squirming, her lovely face pressed into Demos’ shoulder, rooting her mouth around like an infant seeking a breast. He knew her eyes would be dilated, their pupils blown wide, just as he knew his own were.
Omega.
He growled low.
As if in response, Demos touched Sierra’s neck. In seconds she was hanging limply from his arms.
Fadon forced his eyes to meet the Servant’s, forced his breathing to steady. He must be calm, he told himself, or Fadon would lose her.
“Give her to me, Demos,” he bit out, pulling every ounce of control he had into staying sane.
“Under the circumstances,” Demos said, his voice strained but clear, “I think it best if I get her to safety.”
“She is not yours, Servant.” Fadon fought the urge to tear the girl out of the blue-eyed bastard’s arms. “Give. Her. To Me.”
“She is not yours either, Fadon Trajan.”
