Souls sometimes die within a person . . .

The monster’s blunt talons kneaded Mila’s flesh as if she were dough, tender and malleable under his touch. The poor lass didn’t even have enough air left to shriek her anguish. Harsh twitches thrashed through her beaten frame, nerve impulses jumping through bruised and shredded muscle to leave her a pitifully trembling mess beneath her attacker’s oppressive weight. A hot miasma of red-tinged tears blurred her vision. The world smeared and melted. Her lungs could not draw breath, her vocals were too raw from screaming, and she needed her mommy, and she was more scared than she’d ever been in her young life, and slowly she began to realize that Nimueh might never come—or she’d arrive too late to save her—and Lyudmila’s last moments would be spent getting picked at by this cruel bastard as is she were a corpse and he were a starving vulture. Mila had not know helplessness until this moment. If she survived, this experience—this torment and this abysmal sadness—would become her benchmark for suffering. A scar upon her psyche. Because how could anything possibly be worse than weeping at the mercy of the merciless, knowing that hope was meaningless?

A pathetic whimper oozed from the white pup’s lips when the demon finally stepped off her, making sure to drag his claws from her wounds. Shame twisted her guts into knots. She hated this man for hurting her, hated him for the humiliation that tore her apart inside. If the hessian spoke to the other girl, Lyudmila did not hear his words. She curled in on herself . . . shuddering as the mere act of shaping herself into fetal position tugged at her injuries . . . and hiccupped, inhaling and exhaling as shallowly as possible. A ring of shadow was contracting the edges of her sight. Her mind reached for the darkness. Maybe if she fell unconscious, she might escape the evil brute even though her physical self lie vulnerable . . .

“Please!”

A single word. A single plea that somehow slipped from her gaping maw as jaws closed around her spine and lifted her upright, swinging her with no concern for her grievous lacerations, because Lyudmila had been reduced to mere meat and her awareness could be filed down to throbbing flesh and leaking blood and matted hair. Her little limbs struggle weakly, swimming for purchase that was not there, no support to take the pressure from the pulp of her shoulder. The malicious male did not bother to adjust his grip; fangs pierced her securely, ensuring Lyudmila could not slip or fall from his vice, and then they were moving—his long strides pounding across the red earth toward the cliff where she’d first roared at him. The shade of unconsciousness continued to tease her. Surely Mila had endured enough. Surely she was allowed to finally faint, after suffering the indignity of being treated like prey. No . . . not like prey. That was wrong. For Mila had never played with her food the way this teal-eyed stranger played with her, as if her misery were as delicious as her blood. The russet-masked pup would have gladly traded places with a rabbit right now. A rabbit’s heart would have already burst from terror and freed it from this heartless reality.

“P-please . . . please . . .” Delirious rambling. Begging to be set free—whether literally, with the brute opening his trap to drop her, or to kill her cleanly. She thought she heard the voice of another female . . . yet she couldn’t figure out whom. Murina . . . ? Murina had pups, right? Her age? The girl’s heart squeezed, new tears for her fellow packmember dripping down her dust-scuffed muzzle. She reached an oversized paw around, hoping to bat at the devil’s snout, a growl that was hardly more than a vibration stirring in her aching throat. “N-not her. P-please. Not . . .”

Another voice. The voice of the other princess, the one who’d stood up to the monster on her behalf. Demanding that he let her go. Despair crushed Lyudmila’s soul . . . but in the instant before her awareness faded completely, there was something else. Something that managed to put the faintest smile upon her kissers.

Love.

She loved Murina and her sons. And she loved this nameless girl who tried to come to her rescue, even though it was pointless. And even if she died now, she would die loving them—not fearing the dragon whose teeth held her above the dirt.

. . . and are replaced by others.

Kershov x Nimueh | Heiress of Crith Thalmhainn | No love | xathira