Give Her To Me

Ahmi snapped upright, instincts taking over, hoisting herself up with every ounce of strength she had left.

Despite her vision spinning and the fear that her neck might separate from her body, she faced the line of strangers at her side, breathing hard, exposed and shaking.

"Your neck looks fine," Constantine remarked, staring at her with amusement. The lopsided grin on his mouth hit a nerve.

Ahmi wanted to curse him out, but now wasn't the time.

Her blood ran cold. The bastard knew she was awake—and worse, he clearly reveled in the fact that she'd given herself away so easily in front of his men.

Rage flared inside her, sharp and uncontrollable. Every plan she had carefully crafted crashed to pieces in that instant, her fragile hope slipping away into the shadows of the night's danger.

Should she run? Would she make it? Or would she die again for acting without thought?

She couldn't find another way, and that helplessness crushed her. Oh, she was going to die… again.

"This doesn't appear dead to me, does it?" Vanriche's voice broke the silence—deep, calm, and dangerous.

None of the guards answered. Their silence was cowardly.

"Definitely not," Constantine added, sounding far too entertained.

Tears welled in Ahmi's eyes, her vision blurring along with her future. Nothing made sense except the violent trembling in her limbs. She was a stray cat in a den of wolves.

"My lord, I swear to the Goddess Ashkah she was already dead," the guard closest to Constantine cried out, guilt twisting his voice.

Ahmi couldn't agree more. She knew she had died. But that raised the question that loomed over them all:

Why was she alive now?

Another man nodded quickly. "She did die. We checked several times!"

Vanriche gave them a cold, unblinking stare that made Ahmi want to curl away—but she didn't dare move.

"She isn't," he said flatly. "The woman is alive. Breathing. Awake. What part of that don't you understand?"

"Should I kill her again?" Constantine offered. His voice made her shiver.

Vanriche looked ready to respond but hesitated. His eyes found Constantine's, and in that second, Constantine dropped his gaze to Ahmi's neck.

Her shaking hands flew to it, covering the bruises from his eyes and from her own memory. That single motion made Constantine's breathing falter. His eyes sharpened with something she couldn't define.

Her neck throbbed, swollen and raw. Constantine's stare only made it worse.

Then, something shifted. His gaze turned that terrifying shade of vermilion, fixed on her like a predator sizing up prey.

"How about this, cousin?" Constantine said smoothly. "Let me take her back to my hellhole. If you really want this mess cleaned up, I'll handle it myself."

"Not a chance," Vanriche snapped, his glare like frost as he moved past him.

"Too bad," Constantine murmured. "Seems like she and I might get along."

"Not a chance," Ahmi managed to repeat.

There was no time for hesitations. She had to act fast unless she wanted to die the second time in a row! 

Constantine looked her over. "So, the little bird can talk now?"

She cleared her throat, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. "Take me back. I want to go home. I'll forget all of this ever happened."

No one responded—except the cousins.

"Bring him back to his pit," Vanriche ordered. "And take the woman to prison."

Ahmi's stomach dropped.

This man—who held so much power—had no intention of helping her. No mercy. No interest. He wasn't just turning his back. He wanted her buried. Silenced.

He muttered curses under his breath, then glared at Constantine. "You did exactly what I told you not to do."

"Nothing new about that," Constantine said dryly, never looking away from Ahmi.

As the guards began to drag him away, his chains scraped sharply against the marble floors. But even then—especially then—he didn't look anywhere else.

His gaze clung to her, unflinching, like he was trying to burn something into her soul.

Ahmi's stomach churned. And yet, she couldn't look away.

Vanriche turned toward the grand oak doors.

"And the girl, sir?" a guard asked.

Without turning, Vanriche answered:

"Silence her. I don't trust her not to speak of what Constantine did."

It was a death sentence.

Ahmi's breath caught. She understood exactly what he meant.

And for the second time that night, dread twisted like a knife inside her.

She was tired of this—tired of death stalking her like a shadow.

Her voice cracked. "You can't…" she gasped. "Can't…!"

The guards tugged at Constantine's chains, but he froze in place.

Ahmi held her breath.

All eyes snapped to him.

"Move, bastard! What are you waiting for?" one of the guards barked.

Constantine didn't move.

The guard shoved his shoulder. "You deaf, lad?"

Vanriche halted. The doors stood slightly ajar. His shoulders tensed.

And the air itself changed.

Vanriche's voice was low. "Step away from—"

Too late.

Constantine lunged. In a blink, his hand locked around the guard's throat.

The man didn't have time to scream.

The sound of bone cracking filled the chamber as Constantine crushed his windpipe like it was nothing.

The others stood frozen in horror. The man's head hung limp in Constantine's grasp.

He let the corpse fall with all the care of discarding trash.

Then he pulled at his chains—and ripped them apart.

The metal clattered to the floor.

Darkness seemed to pour off him. When he spoke, his voice was soft—but every syllable cut deep.

"Now then," he said, eyes glowing like embers, "give her to me."