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I am off Étoile before she has completely settled, catching Boone’s father when he starts to come down with me and lowering him into the arms of two villagers who rush forward to help. Blood runs down my own arm, but I barely feel it when I turn toward Boone. He remains trapped on the horse, his wrists still secured to the saddle horn.

Behind us, Lucien has become completely unhinged.

“Get away from him! He’s mine!” Lucien screams as the two men struggle to keep him against the ground. “Boone is mine!”

No one is listening anymore.

I reach Boone and close one hand around his waist to steady him. His head whips toward me so quickly that the tears clinging to his lashes scatter across his cheeks. His gaze drops immediately to the blood running down my arm, then shoots past me toward his father.

“Rhys. My dad—”

I don’t answer.

His face crumples, but I don’t give him time to fall apart yet. I pull my knife free and saw through the leather securing his wrists to the saddle horn, careful not to catch his already damaged skin. The moment the binding gives, Boone falls from the horse into my arms.

I catch him against my chest. His arms wrap around my neck with enough force to send pain tearing through my wounded arm, but I tighten my hold anyway. Boone buries his face against my neck for only a second, then pulls back abruptly and looks toward the villagers kneeling around his father.

“Dad.”

I keep one arm around him when his legs grow weak.

I should prepare him.

“Boone.”

Behind us, Lucien is still screaming.

“He belongs to me!”

Boone turns his head and stares at Lucien pinned facedown in the dirt by men who have probably spent years respecting him. Then he looks toward his father lying several yards away, surrounded by people pressing cloth against the wound Lucien put in him.

Whatever fear had been on Boone’s face disappears. It’s replaced by devastation.

I look at the pistol lying beyond Lucien’s reach and at the villagers staring at him with open horror. Some of those same people have undoubtedly spent their lives telling stories about me, warning their children about the monster who lives alone in the castle high above them and wondering what sort of creature chooses to hide himself so far from civilized men.

I keep Boone against my side as we move toward his father, his hand clutching the back of my shirt with blood running steadily down my arm.

Let them decide which one of us is the monster now.

41

Boone

The moment my feet touch the ground, I see my father.

He’s lying several yards away in the middle of the road, surrounded by so many people that for a few seconds I can’t see much more than his boots, one bent knee, and his hand resting palm-up in the dirt. One of the villagers has both hands pressed against a folded piece of cloth covering his chest. Another leans over him, speaking too quickly for me to understand, and somewhere behind them, someone keeps shouting for Mara.

I stare at his hand.

It isn’t moving.

“Dad?”

I start toward him, but an arm closes around my waist before I make it more than a step, pulling me backward so abruptly that the heel of my boots drag through the dirt.

“Rhys, let go!”

“Boone.”