The Golden Line (Knotted 1)

Commandant and dark-haired savage leader both turned, walking down the center path that would lead past where she’d been caged. There was no conversation between them. That would require the practically naked male beside the old man to reply to anything that was being said.

It seemed he pointedly ignored the high-ranked escort, staring straight ahead and walking with purpose. Upon their approach, Morgaine found these men to be even stranger. Her initial assessment was right; they wore their hair almost as long as she wore hers. On many, scars were prominently displayed: slashes across bared chests, shiny star-shaped splatters of mended skin.

Though she’d never seen a wound of that sort healed, she had seen many of her neighbors die from blaster fire. She’d seen the way the skin around the wound flashed out like a bursting flower.

Warriors?

Was this some ritual? Is that why so much skin was exposed?

Were these elite soldiers?

Their features didn’t look like the other men. Cheekbones higher, brows harsh.

Foreign.

They looked rough, these men, rougher than their shined, vermilion armored counterparts. In comparison, they looked monstrous.

Sharp pain jarred her, Morgaine instinctively backing away until her welted and bruised back hit the glass. Her hiss went ignored, for the men were still too far down the gallery to hear her and those near seemed to have forgotten she existed.

The commandant was in conversation with a scowling, square-jawed male at the front of the cavalcade. Like the others, this one wore a weapon at his hip. It did not look like the blasters or knives of the Alphas Morgaine knew. In fact, she would not have thought it a weapon at all except that the commandant looked to it multiple times. When he did so, it was with the same disgust he had projected upon her the day before.

Under that disgust was concern.

It made Morgaine more nervous to see a man as hard and mean as he display veiled hesitation.

They were near enough now she could hear them speaking, but only one language Morgaine understood. With a low timbre and a scratchy grumble, the guest gave throaty responses an unseen male at his back translated.

This was a true foreigner.

Settlers told stories about alien peoples, about harsh cruelties that drove her kind to these new worlds. In the tales, the men described were just as coarse as those marching closer.

And closer, and closer.

Close enough now that several in his party had seen her, seen how she pulled her hair over her shoulders as if to hide behind it… how she only looked at them from the corner of her eye.

They stared as if confused by such a sight, grumbling between themselves in their rough language.

Worried she’d offended, that she had earned more than just another beating, Morgaine glanced to their leader and found him stopped dead in his tracks.

He was staring right at her, speaking quickly in a collection of growls and hisses.

Whatever the translation was, she couldn’t hear it over the beating of her heart in her ears.

The ferocity she’d leveled at the Alphas earlier had dried up, just like her mouth. It might as well have been full of sand.

Their eyes met.

The weighted stare of a demon held her in terrified thrall.

Morgaine forgot to breathe, to blink.

The foreign monster put a hand to the commandant’s chest when he tried to step between them and shoved him back. The old man sprawled, and heavy footfalls beat the ground, dark hair flying out behind the snarling Alpha as he charged her cage.

Others flew after him, trailing behind the male running full speed toward her cage. He reached the glass, gathered the dress she’d worn the day before, the one that had been left out to be pawed and sniffed by strangers. He held it to his nose, roared, and brought both fists to pound the clear barricade between them.

As he beat the glass, as cracks formed and the whole cage trembled, Morgaine screamed.

She screamed and screamed, backing away, curling up as if to hide no matter the welts or the pain.