Page 52 of Alpha's Rejected Warrior
“We have guards on the walls at all times,” Conan explains, gesturing upward. “We also go out to patrol the outside perimeter every four hours, looking for anything unusual — tracks, scents, disturbances.”
“What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?” I kick a rock. “I don’t have your super-senses.”
Rhiannon glances back at me. “Just watch and learn, human.”
Conan rolls his eyes at her back. “Don’t worry. She’s tough on all the new recruits.”
“I can hear you,” Rhiannon calls without turning around.
He winks at me, unfazed. “You’re doing gr—”
“Quiet.” Rhiannon’s back straightens. She lifts her nose to the air, inhaling deeply. “Something’s wrong.”
The trees reveal nothing unusual. “What is it?”
“A strange scent.” Conan’s nose points skyward, every trace of humor gone from his face. “Not one of ours.”
In an instant, a cloaked figure shoots out from the trees, launching toward us with impossible speed. My muscles lock. A blur of dark fabric materializes before me, so close the rush of air hits my face. My brain struggles to process how anyone could move that fast, crossing the distance between the trees and us in the blink of an eye.
A glint of steel catches my eye, a dagger aimed at my chest. I can’t move fast enough to escape it.
In the split second before impact, Rhiannon throws herself between us. The blade sinks into her shoulder. She roars — not in pain, but fury — and grabs the attacker’s wrist.
“Rhiannon!” In a blur of motion, Conan’s body contorts, then transforms. The crack of bones and tearing of clothing rips through the air. Where a man stood seconds ago, a massive wolf with golden fur now lunges toward the cloaked figure, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. The sight stops me cold. It’s one thing to know these people can shift, but another entirely to witness it.
Conan’s powerful jaws sink into the figure’s side, but the attacker is surprisingly strong, throwing him off with a powerful kick.
Blood seeps through Rhiannon’s tunic as she twists their arm, trying to disarm them. Conan is back for a second round, and the attacker knows they can’t fend off both of them for long.
They try to escape, but Rhiannon maintains her iron grip on their wrist. During the violent tussle, the sleeve of their cloak slides upward.
I freeze. Blue tattoos spiral up their forearm, intricate patterns that I recognize from earlier.
Shaman markings.
Conan pounces, his claws ripping through their cloak, sending a flurry of dark fabric into the air.
Rhiannon staggers, her grip loosening as blood continues to soak through her tunic. Her strength ebbs with each heartbeat.
I shout her name, moving toward her.
“Stay back!” She yells, eyes flicking to mine with a flash of panicked concern. Concern forme.
The attacker seizes the moment of weakness, twisting hard enough to break free from her grasp. Before either of us can react, they sprint back toward the trees with the same supernatural speed, disappearing into the dense forest from which they came.
“After them!” she commands, but she stumbles, her hand pressed to her wound.
“No,” Conan says as he shifts back into human form. “You’re injured. We need to get you to Olcan. Let me carry you.”
“I’m fine,” she says through gritted teeth, but the blood dripping from her shirt says otherwise.
“Rhiannon,” I say, moving to her side. “You just took a blade for me. Let us help you now.”
Her golden-brown eyes meet mine, fierce and frustrated. “They were targeting you,” she says. “Why would they target you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, supporting her weight as she finally allows herself to lean on me. “But I definitely saw Shaman tattoos on their arm.”
Her eyebrows furrow with worry. “Are you sure?”
