Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
They’re…building.
“What the fuck?” I whisper out loud, forgetting all about the beast ahead of me.
They’re building a house. Not just some thrown-together shelter. It’s got real structure—actual walls, lifted off the ground like it’s meant for something. Or someone.
Exiles—the same bastards who’ve spent my whole damn life trying to gut one another before breakfast—are working side by side. No screaming. No blood. Just the steady thunk of stone meeting wood. Their movements so in sync it’s like they’ve been doing this for years.
What the hell is going on?
Every single head turns at once, and my breath sticks in my throat.
Masks. Smooth, rust gold masks covering every face, identical down to the way they catch the light. Just like the beasts’, only theirs have no mouths. Just eyes. Blank staring back at me.
“What the fuck…” I repeat.
And then they move.
As one, they rise to their feet in perfect sync, their bodies rippling like a single creature with a hundred limbs. They make a single step forward, and then another.
“Is there a fucking problem?” I snap, fingers tightening around my knife. “And what the fuck are you guys doing?”
The quiet stretches, thick enough to choke on. My pulse hammers against my ribs, each beat screaming at me to move, but I don’t. Not yet. The Exiles stand there—dozens of them—shoulder to shoulder, their masked faces tilted toward me like they’re waiting for something. For me.
No snarls. No knives flashing. No one lunging for my throat.
Just silence.
And then—movement.
They split apart, a clean divide straight down the middle, forming a path so precise it’s like they rehearsed it. My grip tightens on the knife. This isn’t right. Exiles don’t coordinate. They don’t share. They don’t do anything but stab first and ask questions while you’re bleeding out.
My muscles lock, every instinct screaming trap. If they want me on the ground, they’ll have to carve me into it.
I drag a second blade free. My knees bend, weight shifting forward, ready to spring. The stones bite into my bare feet, but I don’t flinch. Pain’s just proof I’m still alive.
“Come and fucking get me,” I growl, voice raw. I know how I look—half-naked in this ruined dress, hair wild, and skin streaked with dirt and old blood. Pathetic. But they know me. Every single one of them has seen what I can do with a blade and a bad mood.
The horned figure—thing—lifts his hand.
The Exiles freeze.
My lungs burn. I didn’t even realize I’d stopped breathing.
The masked figures drop like stones.
All of them. Every single Exile on this street falls to their knees in perfect unison, heads bowed toward the beast beside me. The sound of bodies hitting dirt echoes through the silence—dozens of thuds that make my skin crawl.
My breath hitches. I step back, blade still raised, but my hand shakes. Not from fear. From something else. Something that tastes like copper and feels like falling.
This isn’t possible. Exiles don’t bow. We don’t kneel. We fight and fuck and die. But we don’t submit. Not to anyone. Not to anything.
The horned figure turns toward me, slow as honey, deliberate as death. Those red eyes burn through me. I swear I can feel them peeling back layers of skin, muscle, bone—searching for something buried deep inside.
My feet want to carry me backward, but the stones dig into my heels, trapping me in place.
“I’m so glad you finally made it home, Hellpet.”
My knife clatters to the ground.
Hellpet.
The name hits like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
“Sorry about being theatrical with my messages, but you see…”
He moves closer, and I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process what’s happening.
My legs give out, but he catches me before I can fall, one massive hand wrapping around my waist. His touch burns through the ruined fabric, searing into my skin like a brand.
“I’m a little fucking possessive of my mate.”