Killing Time by Elisa Paige Page B

Afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what I might see there, I violently fluffed the pillows as an excuse to hide my face. Judging by his expression, his tone…I had hurt him.
    A pillow fell over and I snatched it up, violently punching it as I put it back on top of the stack behind me. All the while, I was thinking, Why the hell did hurting Koda feel like a hot blade in my chest?
    A long moment passed as he watched me, then he turned away. I jerked my head up, his name on my lips, only to remain silent when he sat in a wingchair a few feet from the bed. He leaned back, his face in shadows, but I could still feel his dark-eyed regard.
    I jumped when he broke the silence, proving just how strung tight my nerves were.
    “What caused your scars?” His voice was soft.
    Stirring, I glanced down at my legs, now bare from having shifted the robe out of the way. I looked like I was a demented artist’s living canvas. The countless raised, silvery marks were round, oval and square. Some were long, meandering lines and some were swirling spirals. Many bore jagged edges, while others were almost pretty—if the savage application of metal to flesh could be thought of that way. With terrible clarity, I remembered each and every mark. Even worse, the agonizing methods employed to ensure those marks remained. Given the way my kind heal, my skin should’ve been as perfectly smooth as a newly created bittern’s.
    The only positive to the designs cut, sliced, stabbed and burned into me was the warning they’d given others in the stable: This one has endured much, survived much. Tangle with her at your own peril.
    Realizing Koda was still waiting for me to answer him, I said the English words in my head first to make sure I got them right. “The usual. Training. Fighting.”
    He made an impatient noise. “I’ve been a warrior for centuries and can recognize those marks. I meant the others.”
    I breathed in and out a few times, not answering.
    “Someone made those on purpose,” Koda pressed.
    I tried not to flinch, but was only partially successful. Again rehearsing the words silently first, I clutched at the soft terry. “Bittern are wild creatures, right from the start. I was more difficult to tame than—”
    He growled, “You were tortured.”
    Pulling the comforter’s corner over my legs, I shrugged, still unable to meet his shadowed gaze. While I didn’t enjoy the subject, it was easier talking about this than about Koda and me, and the English came more easily. “Cian had the lord master’s permission to train bitterns as he wished.” I ran a hand across the covers, smoothing them unnecessarily, anything to keep my eyes cast down. “To discipline us.”
    “You were tortured. ” His tone had gone hard. Dangerous.
    Swallowing thickly, I nodded. “My legs healed—”
    “I saw you naked, after your shower. It’s not just your legs. Your entire body…” He swore, leaning forward into the light cast by the bedside lamp. Fury blazed in his eyes. “Who is this Cian person and where can he be found?”
    I sucked in a breath. “Cian must be left alone.”
    Profound rage crossed Koda’s face, and for a second I thought he was going to lose it. His nostrils flared and his knuckles went white as he gripped the wingchair’s arms. “You protect the bastard who—”
    I hissed, “Given half a chance, I’d carve the flesh from his bones and choke him with his own entrails! But Cian is brother to Hakol Berand. The Huntsman. Kill Cian and Berand will set the Wild Hunt loose.”
    Koda sat back into shadows. “And?”
    “And?” I echoed, dumbfounded. “The Hunt is Reiden’s deadliest weapon. The riders are his most lethal black ops specialists—the cruelest and most violent killers ever to exist. They live for the agony they inflict. They feast on it. The Hunt is relentless and utterly without mercy. And being fae, they follow their prey across planes, so there is no place that is far enough to escape the Hunt once