The Wrath – Rise of the Warlords Read Online Gena Showalter

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
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This particular threshold stood between two ivy-covered trees, an endless expanse of dark sky and glittering red stars filling it.

Now he knew what to track at least, so track he did. Rathbone diverged from the path, weaving through the forest. But as he bypassed starway after starway for being too pink, orange, yellow, blue, or green, his confidence flagged. What other color remained? He didn’t—there! That one. Black with pinpricks of white. Except, as he veered closer, the trees beside it stretched out their limbs to create a barricade.

No matter. He settled Neeka over his shoulder, purposely cut his palm with a claw, then thrust his bleeding hand into the backpack to grab a grimling.

Without slowing his steps, he tossed the beastie at the limbs. In seconds, the creature created a hole in the wooden block just big enough for Rathbone to dive through.

As he soared, he adjusted his hold on Neeka, tucking her safely against his chest once again. Razor-sharp bark grazed his sides, peeling through layers of skin, poking mátia. Searing pain electrified as frigid cold registered. He collided with solid ground, leaving a crimson trail as he and his bundle rolled over a field of ice.

Icy rain pelted him as he leaped to his feet and took stock. New world. Dark and stormy. Miles of ice. No roads that he could see. The only discernible landmark was a mountain in the distance.

Very well. He’d go there. Mountains provided caves. Caves sometimes supplied provisions—and traps. Not that a trap could stop him from claiming the shelter as his own.

Several grimlings and two daggers had fallen from the bag as he’d rolled. He gathered them, alert. No signs of life. No protests from Neeka, either. She never even stirred.

Worried for her, he started forward, walking, running, sprinting. Amid the rain, wind, and hoarfrost, his concern magnified. His body heat, though fierce, wasn’t enough to warm her. Her teeth chattered.

Relief deluged him when he reached the hoped-for cavern. It wasn’t hidden or high, but accessible from the ground. Wondering what fresh hell awaited him, he hustled into the waiting darkness.

The spacious cavity appeared deserted save for two blanket-covered corpses. They huddled next to a makeshift fire pit teeming with ash. A stack of logs and pair of backpacks waited off to the side.

Nova citizens? Other escapees? Either way, this was a trap. Had to be.

Rathbone gently laid Neeka near a rocky wall and looked her over. The rain had deposited a sheet of ice on her skin. Blue tinged her lips, and her teeth no longer chattered. He needed to get her warm fast.

Remaining on alert, he hauled a stack of logs to the pit. After cleaning his palms of any trace of blood, he struck two unawakened grimlings together, using them to start a fire. If someone or thing was going to attack, he and his companion might as well be warm.

As the wood burned, he inhaled deep, testing the smoke in case poison laced the bark. Clean. After tossing the frozen corpses outside and making sure they stayed dead, he brushed off the blanket, picked up Neeka, and carried her over, laying her upon the soft, dry fabric.

“I’m getting you out of these wet clothes for your own good, oracle. Harpy. Carrot.” He didn’t know what to call her in a situation like this. “I’d prefer you wake up and tell me you’ll do it on your own.”

No response. Very well. He stripped her out of the wet garments, save for her underwear. Do not look. Do not.

As he stripped himself, the mátia zoomed to her, and there was no stopping them. He traced his tongue over his teeth. Sexy female. The gemstones around her navel glinted in the firelight. And the scarlet lace...

Wait. Words covered her thigh in permanent marker. He frowned as he read.

19 drops Deadpool

1 tsp minced dirt snake

8 PB&J eggs

½ tbsp fried Lot Us

Stir with arrowhead

Drink and bake

A recipe? For what?

A mystery for later. Rathbone rifled through the former guests’ backpacks and confiscated a coil of wire. With deft fingers, he rigged a clothesline and hung his and Neeka’s damp garments.

“I hope you’re ready for me.” He lay beside the oracle and pulled her on top of him, chest to chest, then wrapped his arms around her, surrounding her with his body heat. Before long, her chill faded. Warmth overtook the entire hideaway, leaving him damp with sweat.

She shivered, rocking against him, and Rathbone hissed. He fought to keep his mind centered, doing his best not to notice the perfect fit of her lush curves, the sublime glide of her soft skin, or the heady scent of sugared cherries and sweet almonds.

An impossible battle. He noticed everything. And craved more.

Guilt racked him. Think of Lore, soon to return. His mate deserved his devotion, considering he planned to demand hers. Would she give it?


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