The last bloodline

I woke up with a scream lodged in my throat. A dull ache pulsed low between my thighs, keeping time with my heartbeat, and for one disoriented moment I didn't know where I was. Then the fragments came back: his hands, low and certain; his voice rough against my ear; the way he'd held me like he had every right to. I squeezed my eyes shut. Don't think about it. My fingers drifted to the crumpled sheets beneath me. They still carried his scent, smoke tangled with something underneath it I couldn't name something that made my stomach twist for reasons that had nothing to do with shame. It was almost familiar, the way a word feels on the tip of your tongue. I pushed the thought away before it could finish forming. He was gone. Twenty-one years of telling myself my first time would be with my mate, and I'd thrown it all away on a stranger whose name I hadn't even asked. I swallowed the lump in my throat, climbed out of bed, and pulled on my dress with hands that wouldn't quite stop shaking. My hair was a tangled mess. I didn't care. I just wanted to get home. The morning air was colder than it should have been for the season, and I wrapped my arms around myself as I quickened my pace through the empty street. The closer I got to the cottage, the slower my steps became, until I was barely walking at all. Something wasn't right. Smoke drifted above the roofline, not the thin, lazy curl of a hearth fire, but something heavier. Then I saw the horses. Three of them, tied outside our gate, and my heart dropped through my chest before I'd even let myself understand why. I broke into a run. The front door hung crooked on one hinge. Our dining table lay upside down in the yard, one leg snapped clean off. Clothes, blankets, pots, everything we owned had been thrown into the dirt like rubbish waiting to be burned. "What are you doing?" I shouted, my voice cracking halfway through the words. None of the men so much as turned their heads. One of them walked out of the cottage carrying my grandmother's rocking chair, the one my grandfather had carved with his own hands decades ago, back when this had still been a house full of people instead of just the two of us. He tossed it onto the pile without breaking stride. It shattered. "No!" I ran toward it, and that was when another voice stopped me cold. "Elora." I froze. Grandma. She was sitting on the cold stone path in her nightdress, barefoot, blood tracking down the side of her forehead in a thin dark line. Bruises were already blooming along her arms. For one useless second I couldn't make myself move. Then I dropped to my knees, hands hovering over her face because I didn't know where it was safe to touch. "Grandma. Are you hurt? Grandma, look at me." Her eyes were already wet when they met mine. "I'm sorry." "What happened? What did they do to you?" "I'm sorry, Elora." Her voice crumpled. "I couldn't protect our home. I'm useless." Something cracked in my chest. "No. Don't you say that. Don't you ever say that again." I took both her hands in mine. They were freezing. "You did nothing wrong." "I should have stopped them. I tried—" "You are not at fault." My voice broke on it. I raised her to her feet, my arm around her waist to keep her steady, and only then did I turn to face the men standing in what used to be our yard. Three of them, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black-and-white robes so crisp they looked freshly pressed for the occasion of ruining someone's life. One of them folded a piece of parchment and tucked it into his coat before finally looking at me. His expression held no guilt, no shame, only the mild annoyance of a man whose morning had been interrupted. "You've destroyed our home, taken everything we own," I said. "For what? Why would you put your hands on an old woman?" The men exchanged looks. One laughed under his breath. Another scratched at his beard as if he'd just heard something funny. Footsteps sounded behind them, slow and unhurried, and the two men fell silent and stepped aside without being told to. He looked to be in his forties, his robe cut finer than the others', a silver ring catching the early light as he brushed something invisible from his sleeve. He didn't hurry. He took his time crossing the yard, the way a man walks when he already owns everything he's looking at. He stopped a few feet from me and studied me the way someone might size up livestock at a market. "So," he said. "You're Elora." I held his gaze and didn't flinch. "And you're trespassing," I replied. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, like I'd said something he found almost charming. "I like the attitude." He drew the parchment back out and unfolded it with unhurried precision. From Joran and Holt Association." He glanced down at the paper. "Maren Blackwood. Outstanding debt of three hundred and forty silver coins." Beside me, my grandmother's shoulders curled inward. Three hundred and forty silver. More than either of us could earn in two years, let alone repay on top of everything else we needed to live. "We asked for more time," my grandma said. "You were given three months." Croft didn't look up from the parchment. "Please." She stepped forward, tears cutting through the blood on her temple. "I'll repay every coin. I only need a little longer." Croft folded the parchment and slipped it back into his coat without sparing her a glance. "This isn't a charity, Mrs. Blackwood." "It's my home," Grandma whispered. "It was." His gaze swept over the cottage. "Now it's collateral." One of his men walked past carrying the last wooden cabinet and dumped it onto the pile outside. The crash made me jump. Glass shattered. Small brown bottles rolled across the dirt, spilling herbs and powders into the mud. Grandma's medicine. "No!" I dropped to my knees, ignoring the broken glass digging into my palms. I grabbed the nearest bottle. Cracked. I reached for another, already empty, its contents soaked into the dirt before my eyes. Months of treatment. Gone. Grandma knelt beside me, slow and unsteady. "It's all right," she whispered. "No, it isn't." She rested a trembling hand on my shoulder. I swallowed the lump rising in my throat again, helped her to her feet, and turned back to Croft. "You've done enough." "Have I?" He raised an eyebrow. "We don't have the money. You can see that. Doesn't look like there's much left to take." I gestured at the wreckage around us. "I noticed." His eyes drifted over it, almost lazily. Then he chuckled, low, like he found the whole scene mildly entertaining. My hands curled into fists. "Leave." Instead of answering, Croft crossed toward me slowly, like he had all the time in the world. He stopped close enough that I could smell the smoke clinging to his robes. His eyes wandered over my face. "You're not supposed to be living in a dump like this." "I said leave." My voice came out louder than I meant it to. His fingers caught my chin before I could step back. He tilted my face toward him. "Three hundred and forty silver isn't much. His thumb brushed my jaw. "For a pretty girl like you..." I slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me." His smile widened. "That temper. I wonder how long it'd last." "I'd rather die than let you anywhere near me." The smile vanished. His eyes went cold. "You should choose your words more carefully." I laughed, bitter and humorless. "Or what? You've beaten a sick old woman. You've destroyed our home. And now you expect me to thank you?" His jaw tightened. Behind him, one of the men shifted uneasily. "Boss—" Croft silenced him with a glance, then looked back at me. "You've got quite a mouth." His hand shot out and locked around my throat. The back of my head slammed against the cottage wall hard enough that the world went white at the edges. Air caught in my chest and refused to move. "Elora!" Grandma screamed. She rushed at him, grabbing his arm with both hands. "Please! Let her go!" Croft shoved her away without even looking. She hit the stone path with a cry. "Grandma!" I clawed at his wrist, my vision starting to blur at the corners. "You stubborn little mutt," he murmured, "I've broken people stronger than you. I wonder how long it'll take before you beg." "Please!" Grandma cried again, struggling back to her knees. "She hasn't done anything to you!" "Take her away," Croft said, not even glancing at her. Two men seized my grandmother. She fought them, but one of them shoved her down again. My ears rang. Everything else went quiet, the whole yard narrowing to a single point of white-hot fury behind my eyes. Something inside me snapped. I threw my elbow back into his ribs. It barely landed, but it was enough to loosen his grip half an inch. I drove the heel of my boot down onto his foot. He swore and let go. I staggered back, coughing. He recovered fast, reaching for me again, and as he leaned in to grab my arm, I slipped my free hand into my pocket. The penknife was already in my palm before I'd decided to use it. I got the blade to his throat before he'd finished closing the distance. Nobody moved. "One more step," I whispered, my hand shaking, "and I'll cut his throat." Croft's men reached for their weapons. "Don't," Croft said, without taking his eyes off me. The yard fell silent. I pushed the blade just enough for a thin line of blood to appear. His gaze searched my face, looking for hesitation. I had none. For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then he gave a low chuckle. "I've been collecting debts for almost twenty years. You're the first woman who's ever put a knife to my throat." "I don't care." "I can see that." His eyes flicked to the blood on the blade. Dead men don't pay their debts, and dying to a girl with a penknife wasn't a story he wanted to be told. Slowly, he took a step back. The knife left his skin. "Stand down," he ordered. His men hesitated. "I said stand down." They obeyed. Croft touched the cut on his neck, glanced at the blood on his fingertips, and smiled as it amused him. "This isn't over." He turned away. "We're leaving." They mounted their horses and rode off without another word. I stood frozen until the sound of hooves disappeared completely. I turned to Grandma. She was still on the ground, one hand braced against the dirt, breathing hard but upright. "I'm fine," she said before I could ask. But her eyes weren't on me. They were fixed on the road where Croft's men had gone. The knife slipped from my hand. My knees gave out.