“Not a speck,” Rathbone said, releasing a pent-up breath. “She’s clear. No lasting harm.”
Dipping his head, Rannock set his mouth to her temple and cupped the back of her head. His dragon half rose. Magic moved through his veins as he scanned her skull, looking for the lie, making sure Rathbone spoke true.
No blip on his radar. No foreign material embedded inside her brain. Nothing but a whole lot of normal.
Relief slammed through him. He closed his eyes and, hugging her a wee bit tighter, asked, “Feel all right?”
A slight shift in his arms as she assessed. “The low-grade headache that’s been bugging me is gone, so… yeah. I think so.”
“Good, lass.”
She shivered against him. “Can we talk about my dad now?”
“In a minute.” Opening his eyes, he stared at Rathbone from beneath his brows.
The male jerked in surprise, then began to back away.
Baring his teeth, Rannock picked Cate up and set her behind him. One moment, he stood in front of his mate. The next, he went after Rathbone.
Cate sucked in a quick breath. A second later, she yelled his name.
Too little to deter him. Too late to stop him.
He already had Rathbone by the throat. Picking him up, he tossed him through the open doorway into the corridor. The bastard needed a lesson, one Rannock looked forward to delivering… with his fists.
25
Thrown off his feet, Rathbone reeled backward. Green-and-gold wallpaper whirled in the periphery. He saw the doorjamb an instant before he collided with it. Wood bit into the back of his shoulder. Knocked off balance, he careened into the corridor. His shoes rasped across wooden floor, then slid onto carpet.
Struggling to get his feet under him, he wheeled his arms. A great strategy. Not that it mattered. He was off balance, too out of control to stop the inevitable or avoid the pain.
With a grunt, he slammed into the wall opposite Emerald Room. His shoulders punched through paint and gyprock. Plaster dust flew. The wide, rigid chair rail hammered his lower back. As agony clawed up his spine, a male consumed by righteous anger strode over the threshold.
Magic exploded down the corridor.
The wave liquified, splashing like black paint across the large window at the end of the hall, blocking out late-afternoon sunlight. As darkness descended, programmed wall sconces flickered, starting to come on.
Rathbone bared his teeth.
Rannock snarled back, slamming the bedroom door closed behind him.
Good call.
Cate Biscayne might be fierce, but she didn’t need to witness the fight. Battles between magic wielders always ended in bloodshed, lots of it, and humans—no matter the affiliation with his kind—had no place ringside when immortals settled disagreements in the old way. The most natural way. By locking horns and using fists to communicate displeasure.
Though, to be fair, after what he’d done, she had every right to watch Rannock avenge her.
Rathbone wanted to object, disagree with the verdict and defend his actions. Problem was, he couldn’t. Not really. He might’ve done what he believed necessary, but the best thing wasn’t always the right thing. Sometimes right equaled wrong. Sometimes a male needed to make decisions that hurt others to achieve greater goals. Critical ones to ensure the health of all, even if it meant sacrificing one. Still…
As much as it pained him, he couldn’t disagree with Rannock’s position. Particularly since he understood what drove the male—righteous indignation brought on by fear for his mate and the need to protect her. At all costs. Even death, which Rannock courted by challenging him. Then again, Rathbone courted the same by accepting a fight with an enraged dragon warrior.
Dragonkind warriors weren’t lightweights. The breed was vicious in and out of dragon form, more than capable of doing damage to Rathbone and his brothers. All the more reason to keep from tweaking a dragon’s tail if it could be avoided.
Here, however? Avoidance was futile.
Rannock had something to prove. The need to assert his dominance was part of the equation. The greater share, however, belonged to rage. The purity of it shocked Rathbone, making him realize something important. He deserved Rannock’s wrath. Every bit of it. If he had a mate, and she’d been threatened, he’d be reacting the same way, with unmeasured violence in order to make a point. Do it loud. Do it fast. Do as much damage as possible, ensuring no one mistook the message in the brutality. Which meant…
He couldn’t kill Rannock. Not for avenging his mate.
His Triad lived by a code. He and his brothers never killed without good reason. His conscience refused to let him. Toss in a rigid sense of fairness in all things, and, sad to say, his fight with Rannock was destined to be one-sided. No magic could be used. He must sheathe his usual weapons, play fair and resist the urge to unleash the full extent of his power while giving Rannock the fight he craved.
A brutal one.
Nothing else would settle his scales. The dragon warrior needed to satisfy his pride and soothe primal instincts. Whether he knew it or not, Rannock wanted to prove to his mate—and himself—he could protect her, even in the face of overwhelming odds.
Pushing away from the wall, Rathbone cracked his knuckles. “Fists, no weapons.”
“Agreed,” Rannock growled, moving with unnatural speed.
A heavy fist broke through Rathbone’s guard.
Knuckles cracked against his cheekbone. His head snapped to the side. Blood washed into his mouth. He shifted right, unwrapping a roundhouse beneath the male’s chin. Rannock grunted, stumbling backward. Rathbone grinned, feeling more alive than he had in months, maybe years, as he and Rannock circled each other.
The warrior struck.
Rathbone parried, taking punches, landing some of his own.
A cut opened over his eyebrow. Blood trickling down his face, he blocked a punch, then spun to deliver one of his own. A mistake. Rathbone knew it the second he moved. Rannock was too strong. An expert in hand-to-hand combat, the warrior showed no mercy, moving Rathbone where he wanted him to go, allowing him to gain ground, only to take it away.
A series of hollow victories. A brutal lesson in humility.
Heart racing, chest heaving, Rathbone tried a counterattack. Grabbing his forearm, Rannock kicked the side of his leg. His knee buckled. As he cursed, the dragon warrior drove him backward, toward the staircase. His feet slid toward the top step. He teetered on the edge a second, then lowered his head and lunged at Rannock. His shoulder rammed into the male’s chest.
Surprised by the move, Rannock spun around and slammed into the banister. Wood splintered. The heavy post gave way. Rathbone lost his footing. Momentum took over, throwing him into the yawning mouth of the stairwell. He heard Rannock curse a second before the male followed him over the edge, tumbling down the stairs behind him.
26
Yanking the door open, Cate raced into the hall just in time to see Rannock fall down the stairs. She heard the scramble and bang as he slammed down the stone steps. Her breath caught. Shock spun into fear. Alarm compressed her chest, making it hard to breathe as she stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, listening to him tumble.
A thump, then another, rumbled up the staircase. The awful cacophony spiraled against the high ceiling. Wall sconces rattled as the floor under her feet shook.