“Riorson!” Oren’s dagger clatters to the floor. “You think surrendering will save you?” Xaden’s lethally soft tone sends goose bumps up your arms.

“It is against our code to attack another rider in their sleep.” “But you know he never should have bonded her!” Oren puts his hands up, his palms facing us. “You of all people have reason enough to want the weakling dead. We’re just correcting a mistake.” “Dragons don’t make mistakes.”

Xaden’s shadows grab every assailant but Oren by the throat, then constrict. They struggle, but it doesn’t matter. Their faces turn purple, the shadows holding tight as they sag to their knees, falling in an arc in front of me like lifeless puppets. You can’t find it in my heart to pity them. Xaden prowls forward as though he has all the time in the world and holds out his palm as yet another tendril of darkness lifts your discarded dagger from the floor.

“Let me explain.” Oren eyes the dagger, and his hands tremble. “I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” Xaden’s fingers curl around the hilt. “She should have killed you in the field, but she’s merciful. That’s not a flaw I possess.” He slashes forward so quickly that you barely catch the move, and Oren’s throat opens in a horizontal line, blood streaming down his neck and chest in a torrent. He grabs for his throat, but it’s useless. He bleeds out in seconds, crumpling to the floor. A crimson puddle grows around him.

The trembling starts in your knees, and then nausea overpowers you. Fuck, you thought you’d worked past this kind of reaction to adrenaline, but here you are, shaking like a leaf as Xaden sorts through your armoire like he hasn’t just taken out half a dozen people. As if this kind of slaughter is commonplace. “It’s the shock,” he says, whipping your cloak from its hook and retrieving a pair of boots. “Are you hurt?” His words are clipped and break whatever temporary block you had on the pain. It comes flooding back in a throbbing wave that centers in your back. So much for the adrenaline rush.