Fight to the Death

Ella

Ryatt is out of bed in an instant, his face dancing with shadows cast by the early morning daylight creeping through the airy curtains. He grabs me by the ankle and drags me toward him across the bed as Isaac stalks into the room.

Ryatt looks murderous. His eyes are bright, clear, and lucid as he narrows them on my brother while I swing my legs off the bed and stand at his side. He stretches his arm across me, trying to push me behind him.

I feel a flicker of something deep in my heart. It’s fleeting, but Ryatt’s desperation to keep me safe from this threat–my brother and his temper–awakens a single speck of the bond that was stolen from us.

“Stop,” I whisper. “Ryatt, stop!”

“Get out,” Ryatt sneers as Isaac comes to a stop in the center of the room. Through the doorway, I see several figures lingering in the shadows. Warriors, from what I can smell.

“What are you doing in here with him?” Isaac snarls, his eyes locking on mine.

“Do not speak to her.” Ryatts voice is sharpened