“Congratulations, Nicholas. You fought well today, as always,” Arden said.

Nicholas captured his waist in a lewd gesture and relished in the hungry kiss he received.

“Lord Nicholas.” Duke cleared his throat, souring his mood in a single sound.

“What now?” Nicholas barked.

“After such a trying battle, is it not prudent to speak with the soldiers?” Duke nodded at the med bay adjacent to them. “You are a delegate of Faerie, sent by Lord Darkmoon himself. The generals, and kings, would appreciate your attention toward the wounded, especially now when we are getting so close to the end. It may set the mortal soldiers at ease, seeing you so clearly on their side.”

“Send Blair for such trivial matters. She loves toying with mortals.”

Blair laughed. “I don’t think so. This is your duty as the oh-so-special delegate of the Darkmoon family.” Caught between two of their kin, she wiggled her fingers dismissively. “Have fun.”

The three scurried off with booze in hand, leaving him with Duke’s expecting attention. He snarled. “What attention would I give those ailing bastards struggling against the inevitable?”

Arden placed a hand against Nicholas’ chest, fingers toiling with the buttons of his blouse. “Nicholas has done more than enough. We have earned an evening of celebration.”

“I do not disagree,” Duke said. “But this will only take a moment. Speak to the soldiers, let them know how grand this victory is, that you slayed a shadowed disciple considered of great importance and we’re far closer to catching Fearworn than ever.”

“Mortals and their cares will always elude me.” Nicholas pressed a kiss to the base of Arden’s neck, whispering against the shivering skin to wait for him. Arden slipped away, and he waved a dismissive hand. “So be it. I’ll speak to the wounded, then you will leave me. If I see your vile mug before dawn, there will be severe consequences.”

Duke bowed and Nicholas stormed toward the tent reeking of human filth. They had an uncanny ability to carry the aroma of a sewer wherever they went. Their weak bodies lay out on cots, broken, bloodied, and bandaged. The medics and nurses toiled over them. A useless endeavor, he always thought. Mortals passed with such ease.

“Mortal filth!” Nicholas twirled his hands dramatically.

Duke pursed his lips in disapproval.

He meandered by the cots, speaking in a high tilted voice like a parent coddling their children. “If you are somehow unaware, I am Nicholas Darkmoon, a delegate of Faerie and your soon-to-be savior. I’ve come with great tidings. As you may have known, Lockehold was of great importance. Some gave their pathetic, insignificant lives to the cause. I’ve been informed that it is a tremendous honor. Though nothing compared to my achievements. I burned one of Fearworn’s shadowed disciples to a crisp, someone high ranking among his wretches. Thanks to that, we’re one step closer to defeating the bastard. Although I doubt most of you will survive to see it, this remains a blessed day.” He cast his gaze from one silent cot to the other, then added, “This is when you applaud.”

No one did, though a disgusting bastard made the mistake of clutching his wrist. Blood slipped over his skin. A frail voice sputtered from a man with blood-stained bandages over what little remained of his melted face. “Please, sir, water,” the mortal croaked.

Nicholas felt life slipping away, the mortal’s energy fading like a forgotten fire. Nothing the medics tried would prevent this soldier’s demise.

The Collision Treaty stopped fae from taking the lives of mortals and making deals with them during war times, but there had always been loopholes. Mortals could offer to make a deal first. Fae could kill mortals already bound to death since their religions found it merciful to end suffering. Most mortals didn’t believe souls left this world forever. Eventually, they returned, so their medics were ordered to ease the passing of those incapable of being saved. To fae, that meant a little torment could happen prior to a final breath.

“I will give you something, but it won’t be water,” he chuckled and reared his arm back. Power twisted around his hand, forming a sharp saber intent on relieving the dreg of a limb.

A gun fired. The iron bullet pierced his shoulder. He cursed. The skin sizzled and burned. Coral mist seeped from the wound, accompanied by bubbling blood, then the bullet slipped out to clatter on the ground. His guttural growl grew when gazing upon the smoking revolver held by a soon to be dead dunce.

“Get out of our tent,” the medic spoke, based on the crimson stained shirt clinging to his muscular form. Sweat clung to the short ends of his blonde hair, carrying the sun’s first rays of dawn. Those jade eyes did not share the same fervor, as wild and feral as a starving beast. He stepped out from behind a cot to stand at the center of the tent, gun raised.

Nicholas hated how he admired the man’s tone figure, long legs and cool white skin glistening beneath the translucent fabric over his broad chest. What a waste of looks on a mortal who would be eaten away by time and death.

“You shot me,” Nicholas hissed.

“You were about to dismember one of my patients. If you try to do so again, I will aim for the head.” The gun clicked in warning.

A nurse gasped and knelt by the cot of her patient.

Duke stepped forward. “Let us all calm down. This is unnecessary and the Collision Treaty—”

“Is a load of bullshit,” the medic interrupted. “Written by halfhearted kings and lords with no care or mind for what happens here. Now, get out. We have enough work on our hands. We needn’t care for an arrogant child, too.”

“An arrogant child. You better tell me I heard wrong.” Nicholas rolled his shoulder.

Nurses and patients gasped, shocked to witness the bullet wound closing. Nothing remained but a dull throb.

“Let me correct myself then, an arrogant and hard-of-hearing child utterly incapable of thinking of anyone other than himself. He comes raging into camp without thinking of the consequences of his fire.” The medic nodded toward the muddy ground. “The snow was cold, but at least it was sturdy. Our medics shouldn’t have to worry about twisting their ankles while attending to the wounded. Then you come in here spouting bullshit and daring to put your hands on anyone. I don’t believe I’ve ever met one as dull as you.”

Nicholas clutched the throat of the disobedient bastard. His claws pierced skin. The medic kept his haughty chin high. Blood followed the slender curves of his neck, painting the skin a lush red.

“You have quite the tongue on you. I would love to rip it out,” he snarled and squeezed harder.

“Go on.” The medic smirked when Nicholas grunted from the head of the gun digging into his crotch. “Let us determine who is quicker.”

“That is a game you don’t wish to play, mortal scum.”

“I’ll decide what games to play myself, arrogant jackass.”

“My Lord.” Duke shot an arm between them, attempting to separate the two. “This is uncalled for. You are on the verge of going against the Collision Treaty. No king, and especially not Lord Darkmoon, will tolerate this.”

But he couldn’t tolerate smug mortals and this blonde dolt made him want to snap necks.

Though, truth be told, the combat medic was not worth the torture his father would set upon him for causing trouble. The one fae he listened to, in a sense, and for good reason. Laurent knew pain and dealt it like no other. He didn’t take disobedience well. Even with all of Nicholas’ strength, he never won against his father, because Laurent always knew what made him tick. What made him cower. What to use and how to use it. Laurent’s long years of life made him seem invincible.

Nicholas reluctantly released the medic. The stranger fell to his heels and retreated, gun pointed between Nicholas’ legs.

“You should learn to hold your tongue before you lose it,” he warned.

“I don’t take the advice of fools,” the medic replied.

He wanted nothing more than to burn the medic and listen to his shrill screams through the night. But a glimpse of Duke reminded him of what would happen if he dared, so he stormed out of the tent, leaving a trail of flames in his wake. He overheard Duke apologizing for the disturbance, then the mentor approached him outside.

“Who was that?” he growled, catching sight of the medic through the slaps of the tent.

“Nothing more than a combat medic,” Duke replied nervously. “Forgive him. He didn’t know to whom he spoke. Tonight is a victorious one. Please, enjoy your evening with your kin.”

Nicholas was sure to do so, drinking the night away and spending an evening in bed with Arden, all the while dreaming of gouging out a pair of smug green eyes.