Page 79 of The Merciless Laird
"Callum will be pleased," the second man rasped, his voice a needle of ice against her ear. "He's been waitin’ a long time fer this."
The name made her blood turn to slush. The panic vanished, replaced by a terrifying, crystalline clarity.
She knew that name. She knew what this was.
She let her muscles go limp. She stopped fighting.
The men registered the surrender, their grips shifting as they adjusted for a body that had stopped pulling. In that split second of adjustment, Matilda drove her knee up with savage, primal intent. It connected with a sickening thud. The man folded, the air leaving him in a sharp grunt.
She opened her mouth and let out a scream that ripped from the very bottom of her soul. It wasn't a cry for help; it was a beacon.
"IVAR!"
She threw every ounce of her strength into the name. She started fighting again. Nails, teeth, heels, anything to anchor herself as they tried to drag her toward the dark end of the alley.
"IVAR!"
The smoke was thick, the dark was closing in, and Callum's name was a ghost in the air. She screamed his name again and waited for the Raven to find her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Ivar."
The moment he heard her voice, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
The roar of the warehouse fire, the frantic shouts of his men, and even the concussive shock of the second explosion that rocked the dock. It all faded into a dull, distant hum.
Her voice cut through the chaos like a jagged blade finding the gap in a knight’s plate. Ivar didn’t think. His body moved on an instinct older than his name, his feet eating the distance toward the passage before his mind had even mapped the direction.
The alley was a narrow throat of stone, choked with low-clinging smoke that tasted of oil and ash. He plunged in without slowing.
He saw the first man’s back, and that was all he needed.
Ivar didn't stop to challenge him. He didn’t announce his presence.
The bastard was reaching for Matilda with both arms, and Ivar took him from behind with his left hand, using his right just once. It was a single, savage motion, economical and final. The man’s neck snapped with a sound like a dry branch, and he went down without a whimper.
Ivar was already stepping over the settling body before it hit the cobbles.
The second man spun around, his eyes wide behind a rough mask. He had time to raise an arm in a pathetic defensive reflex, and that was all.
Ivar caught the wrist, redirected the momentum with a bone-deep jar, and drove the man into the stone wall with enough force to crack the mask. The man dropped like a stone, alive but drawing short, wet pulls of air.
He’ll live long enough tae bleed fer answers later.
"Ivar." Her voice was a ragged tremor.
He turned.
She was pressed against the soot-stained wall, her hair a wild, dark tangle. She held a small belt knife he’d given her with both hands, the blade steady even as her chest heaved. A shallow cutacross her forearm wept red, the blood stark and hot against her pale skin.
He crossed to her in two strides. He didn't ask permission. He took her face his hands, his palms rough and soot-streaked against her skin. He checked her with ruthless efficiency.
"Are ye hurt?"
"Nay." Her chin was steady, but her jaw was locked tight against the trembling she refused to show.
"The arm. It's bleedin'."
