Page 90 of The Duchess Games

The second time he screamed, it was because a duke was hurling him bodily through the air.

Cat sucked in air, her throat spasming. Tears blurred her vision and so she wasn’t entirely sure what was happening until she heard Callum’s voice, rough, gentle, furious but utterly controlled. “Cat, are you hurt?”

She tried to speak but squeaked instead. She swallowed gingerly, shaking her head.

“Breathe for me, siren.” He brushed sand off her cheeks, tracked her tears, narrowed on the marks around her neck. Something snapped in his face. His eyes turned to dark ice, the kind that snaps your neck when you fall. He rose, every inch a duke. Every inch a predator.

When Juro screamed for the third time, it was short and strangled, choked in his own blood.

Callum punched like a brawler instead of an aristocrat, but he had the focus and the discipline of a duke. Juro got in a single punch, mostly through luck and the sheer size of him. Callum staggered back, spat blood, and then smiled.

The fight was short and vicious. Juro went down and could not gain ground again. Callum cracked his nose, then two teeth. Juro’s face turned red, purple and began to swell.

Callum kept punching him.

Cat crawled closer, her voice raspy but still functional. “Callum, stop.”

After one more blow, Callum eased back, blood on his knuckles. His perfect cravat was rumpled. He stood, helping Cat gently to her feet. He angled himself so that not even Juro’s rapidly swelling eyes could touch her.

“I won’t bother warning you to stay away from her because I know damn well you will. You’ll be transported by the end of the week, and should you think to come back, remember that they hang men who hurt duchesses.”

Juro groaned and lost consciousness.

“Good riddance,” Cat whispered.

“I’m taking you to the doctor,” Callum added immediately. “Now. I’ll carry you.”

She smiled. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“You’re seeing one. Two. Three at minimum,” he insisted. “He was strangling you.”

“Nothing a cup of tea can’t cure.”

He shook his head, stunned.

“Where did you even come from?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter, none of it matters. I was coming down here to argue with you some more, but seeing his hand around your throat—” He broke off, shuddering.

“I don’t think he’ll try that again.”

His eyes glittered again. “He will not.” He frowned. “What happened to his ankle?”

She grinned. She couldn’t help it. “Sir Bartholomew bit him.”

“He has more than earned his title as Sir. I think possibly he might be an earl.”

“Lord Bartholomew. It does have a ring to it.” She cleared her throat, feeling giddy, sore, slightly disoriented. And utterly, perfectly fine, and all because Callum was standing next to her. “I told you snapping turtles weren’t to be underestimated.”

“So you did. And so you are,” he said. “Not to be underestimated.”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Callum. Truly.”

“I love you. I’ve loved you for thirteen years,” he said. “And I’m the one who should be sorry.”

She stepped back, unsure. He was sorry for loving her? Could she blame him?

“I always told myself I would fight the world for you, would protect you from it, and when the time came, I could barely fight myself.”