Page 67 of Dark Elf Makes Five

Relief crashes across his features like a wave breaking against stone. Without warning, his mouth captures mine in a kiss that tastes of desperation and possession, fierce enough to ground me back in my own body. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against mine.

"Come," he says, his hands steady on my shoulders as he guides me toward three small figures huddled near the warehouse wall. "They need you."

The moment Bran, Lysa, and Tobin see me approaching through the dim light of the warehouse, their careful composure—the brave faces they'd been maintaining throughout this nightmare—shatters completely and utterly. They launch themselves at me with the desperate force of cannonballs, small arms wrapping around my waist and legs and whatever parts of me they can reach first as broken sobs tear from their throats.

"Kessa!" Lysa wails, her voice raw and cracking. Her face presses hard against my ribs, her tears soaking through the fabric of my shirt. "We thought—we thought they were going to—" The rest dissolves into incoherent crying, her small body trembling violently.

"Shh, shh." I sink to my knees on the dirty warehouse floor, pulling them down with me, gathering all three of them against me as tightly as my shaking arms can manage.

My hands move over their heads, their backs, checking for injuries even as I hold them close. Bran's shoulders shake with silent tears—he's trying so hard to be strong even now, but he can't hold it back anymore. Tobin clings to my neck like he's drowning and I'm the only piece of driftwood in an endless ocean, his thin arms locked around me with surprising strength.

"I'm here," I whisper fiercely into their hair, my own voice breaking. "You're safe now. I promise you're safe. I'm never letting you go again. Never. Do you hear me?"

When the children's sobs finally quiet to hiccupping breaths and their grip on me loosens just enough that I can breathe properly again, Zerion steps forward. His boots crunch against the debris scattered across the warehouse floor as he gestures to five of his guards.

"Fendrin, Baldraw, Thale, Bandil, Jorik." Each man straightens at the sound of his name. "Escort them home. All of them. Keep them safe."

The words are jarring like ice water, and I spring to my feet so quickly that Lysa stumbles backward with a startled squeak. My hands instinctively reach out to steady her before I whirl to face Zerion, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"What do you mean, escort us home?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with panic I can't quite suppress. "Why aren't you coming with us?"

Zerion's ghostly eyes flick meaningfully toward the two surviving kidnappers, who kneel bound and bloodied near the warehouse's far wall. Draven stands over them like a stone sentinel, his sword still drawn and gleaming with fresh blood.

"These men require questioning." His voice carries that familiar controlled calm, but underneath I hear something harder. Colder. "Thoroughly. The children have endured enough without witnessing what comes next."

Bran shifts closer to me, his young face pale but determined as he follows Zerion's gaze to the prisoners. At thirteen, he's old enough to understand exactly what kind of questioning Zerion means—the sort that doesn't involve polite conversation over tea and biscuits.

"You need to see a healer," Zerion continues, his attention returning to us. "All of you. Rest. Recover from this ordeal." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I need answers about why this happened. Who ordered it. Who else might be involved."

The weight of his words settles over me like a suffocating blanket. Those phrases he'd spoken during our frantic ride through the forest echo in my mind with crystalline clarity: They took what belongs to me because they thought it would give them leverage.

The truth crashes down on me with the force of a collapsing building. This isn't over. It will never be over.

As long as I remain under Zerion's protection—as long as these children live in his house, eat his food, sleep in his beds—we'll always be targets. Someone will always see us as the easiest way to strike at him. A weakness to exploit. A vulnerability to manipulate.

36

ZERION

Iwait until the sound of equus' hooves fades completely before turning my attention to the two remaining kidnappers. The warehouse settles into an oppressive silence, broken only by the steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the labored breathing of bound men.

Draven positions himself beside me, his sword still drawn, the blade catching what little light filters through the grimy windows. The captain's face shows no emotion whatsoever—he's done this before, and he knows what comes next.

The first kidnapper, a stocky human with graying hair and scarred knuckles, glares up at me with defiant hatred burning in his pale eyes. His companion, younger and leaner, keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the warehouse floor, sweat beading across his forehead despite the cool air.

"Let's begin simply," I say, crouching down until I'm at eye level with the older man. "Who hired you?"

"Go to the abyss, you ash-skinned bastard."

The response comes without hesitation, delivered with a practiced venom that suggests he's rehearsed this moment. I nod slowly, as if his answer was exactly what I expected.

"Predictable." I rise to my full height and draw the curved dagger from my belt—a family heirloom with an edge sharp enough to part silk. "Draven, hold his arm steady."

The captain's gauntleted hands clamp down on the man's wrist, pinning it against the rough wooden crate behind him. The kidnapper's bravado wavers for the first time as he realizes what's about to happen.

"You can't—nobles don't⁠—"

"You're confused about what I am." I place the blade's tip against his thumbnail, applying just enough pressure to dimple the nail without breaking through. "I'm not a court dandy concerned with propriety. I'm a man whose family you threatened."