risk much. This woman is protected by her mother’s spilt blood and claimed by Grigori, the witchblood prince. You might be Vasilisa’s plaything, but that won’t stop him from torturing you for eternity if you despoil his prize.”
Romanov tore his lips from hers and whirled around to face the interruption. A man had entered the courtyard from the keep. Elena immediately found her footing as she was shoved behind the warrior she shouldn’t have been kissing.
Her life wasn’t a life free to indulge in sensual assignations. Especially with the legendary master who refused to help her engage the help of the alpha wolf.
The man who had entered the courtyard cautiously approached them. Of course, he was no man. He was Volkhvy. And judging from his intimate knowledge of her tormentor, he was Dark, not Light.
“You’ve come for the Romanov blade, but you’ll find it buried deep in a cross purified by generations of my honorable men. It won’t come to you easily, and the sapphire has long lost its glow,” Romanov said. He’d placed himself between her and the Volkhvy. But he had no weapon in his hands.
The Dark witch was dressed in black leather from head to foot. He shone like obsidian in the winter sun. His white hair was braided in a thousand plaits and piled on top of his head, and his movements were young and quick. He was at least as tall and strong as Romanov himself. Elena’s heart pounded, overwhelmed with the rude transition from passion to fear. The wolves would come. Surely, the wolves would come.
“Grigori will kill you for taking the taste he hasn’t been able to take himself. He will cut out your bold tongue,” the man said. He laughed when he said it. And he attacked.
Elena was startled by another sudden shove that sent her sliding backward in the snow away from Romanov as he pushed her several feet before he and the Volkhvy collided. She didn’t fall. She kept her balance as only a woman with years of physically demanding training could have. Her knee screamed, but it didn’t give way. Her arms flew out to automatically aid her equilibrium, and anyone watching would have thought she had merely been landing from a smooth pirouette.
“You grow weaker with each materialization, old man. The stone can be recharged. I’m not sure the same can be said for you,” the witchblood man said.
“Try and try and try again. But always empty-handed in the end. Right, Dominique?” Romanov taunted in return.
“You know this man?” Elena asked. She’d immediately recovered and gone to a weapons rack where practice swords and daggers were hung in a rough array.
“Him. Many others. They’re all the same to me. They come for the sword Vasilisa gave my father,” Romanov said. “They leave without it.” His blows connected powerfully with the Volkhvy’s abdomen, chest and jaw. The witchblood man recovered from each blow much more quickly than a mortal man would. But after one particularly hard connection, he did spit blood into the snow. “Sometimes they don’t leave. Perhaps it’s your turn to die, Dominique.”
“Romanov!” Elena shouted. She threw a short broadsword high into the air. It flew in a wide arc and then down into Romanov’s hand. She grabbed two daggers for herself, but as her hands closed over their hilts, something drew her attention across the courtyard. Her eyes fell on the sword Romanov had buried deep in the scarred practice form. Her feet carried her closer to it of their own volition. One step and then another. The sapphire didn’t look that dull to her. It seemed to sparkle in the sun.
“No. Go inside,” Romanov ordered. She ignored him. The Volkhvy had drawn a blade from a sheath on his back. His leather trench coat whirled around his legs as he brandished it. It wasn’t jeweled, but the metal itself glowed in his hands.
Elena had gone for the easily accessible weapons because that’s where she’d ended up when Romanov had shoved her away. Now she tucked the daggers in her back pockets and went for the more powerful blade. It was buried deep in the wood of the cross. So deep that it held her entire body weight, such that it was, when she grasped its hilt and tried to pull it free.
“I’m not running away. Not anymore,” she said through clenched teeth. She refused to let go even when the hum of power in the sword caused her arms to go numb. Romanov was wrong. There was power left in the blade. It hummed like bees beneath her skin, vibrating her body as she pulled. She braced her feet against the practice form. Her knee screamed, but she used all of her strength to push with her legs and pull with her arms at the same time.
“It won’t matter. Running, hiding, making a stand. He’ll have you in the end. There are many that claim to be Volkhvy, but only Dark Volkhvy royals can trace their lineage back to Baba Yaga herself. The witchblood prince won’t be denied. Oh the pretty tales he’s told about his future plans for you, my pet. Or I should say his pet,” the Volkhvy said. His laugh was cut short by a sudden fierce attack by Romanov. The powerful warrior hacked and hacked until the muscles on his back stood out in bunches and the witchblood man was driven to his knees. The Volkhvy, Dominique, parried as many blows as he could, but others connected with him until his white hair was painted with crimson flecks of blood.
“You should have given up. This will be your last attempt,” Romanov said.
Elena suddenly fell to the ground as the Romanov blade came out of the practice form. She cried out as the fall jarred her knee and she closed her eyes against the pain, but she didn’t drop the sword. She landed on her back with the sword grasped in both hands. It took long seconds to catch her breath and regain her feet. Seconds Romanov didn’t have. As she opened her eyes and stood, the Volkhvy’s hands glowed. His blade had been knocked from his fingers, but he looked prepared to unleash some kind of spell against the man she’d been kissing minutes before.
“No,” Elena shouted. She ran toward the men with the sapphire blade held high.
But there was no time for spells or the Romanov blade. Romanov plunged the dull practice sword into the Volkhvy’s chest. The rusty metal must have penetrated the witchblood man’s heart. Thick black blood bubbled up from the wound and from between the man’s lips as he fell to the snowy ground.
Romanov fell to his knees beside his old adversary and grasped him by the lapels of his leather trench coat. He jerked him up toward his face. Elena stopped dead in her tracks and lowered the Romanov blade before the gruesome scene.
“Take Grigori a message. Tell him Elena Pavlova belongs to no one but herself,” Romanov said. “And that Bronwal is defended. For eternity.”
Elena started and dropped the Romanov blade when the bleeding man hazed before her eyes and disappeared leaving nothing but a puddle of steaming black blood on the ground. The sword fell with a solid thud that caused Romanov to rise to his feet and turn as if he was prepared to face another challenger.
“It’s a defense mechanism. Volkhvy fade back to their home when they’re gravely injured,” Romanov explained. There was black blood on Romanov’s sculpted cheek. From it a slow curl of steam rose in the air. His hair was loose now. It had come unbound during the fight. Long black waves framed his face. His hands were clenched. His chest rose and fell from the exertion of defeating a magical foe. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. They tracked from the sword on the ground to the practice form, to her face and back again.
“You tried to bring me the Romanov blade,” he said.
“You warned Grigori away,” Elena replied.
He stalked toward her looking battered and bruised, but the confident look in his eyes and the puddle of Volkhvy blood
