Oh, he still didn’t trust the bastard completely. He was magical and used to manipulation to win his way. But at the moment, he knew Bram’s priorities matched his own.
Afternoon rolled into early evening. After dark, the dragging, sweating men headed inside for a break. Massive amounts of food were consumed in moments.
“You poor nonmagical bastards.” Ice rolled his shoulders, working through the soreness. “You did this every day for years to master this rubbish?”
Duke groaned. “This makes waving a wand look damn easy.”
“Hell. I don’t know if I’ve got legs anymore,” Shock complained.
“You will feel them tomorrow,” Marrok supplied helpfully. “The lot of you is pitifully out of shape. You look fit…”
“We aren’t meant to lift fifty-pound swords for five hours or knock off one another’s heads with our fists.” Lucan grimaced, stretching his tightening shoulders.
“Think of how much better prepared you will be to meet the Anarki,” Marrok replied.
“It’s the only thought that has kept me moving for the past two hours.”
Shock snorted. “Precisely. I’m quite motivated by not allowing some soulless, flesh-rotting bastard to whip my arse.”
“More, gentlemen?” called a husky female voice from the far end of the obscenely long dining hall. Sabelle lifted a platter still laden with food.
Duke and Lucan both thanked her and declined. Shock followed suit, rising to his feet very slowly—with a vicious curse.
“No more for me,” Marrok added. “My thanks for a wonderful dinner.”
“Just a wave of my wand…” She shrugged. “I have it pretty easy.”
Bram merely shook his head and tried to shoo her out of the room. Instead, she looked at Ice, who stared back with the intensity of a laser beam.
Sabelle approached him. “We haven’t met. I’m Sabelle.”
He rose to his feet, and his green eyes burned. “Isdernus Rykard.”
The smile fell from her face.
“Most people call me Ice.” He tried to gentle his tone, Marrok could tell. Even so, his voice rattled with a growl.
She took a step back. But Ice just kept coming for her and stuck out his hand.
Glancing between his outstretched palm and his bright, fixated eyes, Sabelle slowly held out her hand.
Before they could shake, Bram stood, huge footsteps eating up the distance between them in a blur of speed until his big body shadowed his sister’s. “Sabelle, you have done your duty as hostess. Go.”
At her brother’s words, she glared at Bram. “I am a woman, not an obedient dog.”
“You are still my sister and my ward. I decide whose hand you shake. Out. Now.”
“You are straining my affection,” she warned.
“And you’re pushing your luck.”
Bram’s expression morphed into unbendable fury. Sabelle heaved a sigh of frustration, then stomped out of the room.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Bram turned to Ice. “I need you as a fighter. I will provide instruction and feed you at my table. Do not ever touch my sister.”
“I’m not trying to shag the perfect princess.” Hatred spit from Ice’s cold eyes.
Bram ground his teeth together and got right up in Ice’s face. “You will not use my sister and ‘shag’ in the same sentence or I will kill you. Are we clear?”
Ice snorted as he sat again and dug into the last of the food on his plate. “Hold your shotgun. I have no designs on Sabelle. Talk about nightmare in-laws.”
Marrok watched the exchange end. Whatever feud lay between Bram and Ice, it was bad.
“This cannot go on,” he warned. “You must work together, build trust, know that every man has the other’s back—at least on the battlefield. Or you will fail to vanquish Mathias.”
Ice and Bram shared a quick glance but nodded. And mercifully shut up.
As a unit they left the dining hall. Night spilled in through the manor’s huge windows. At the end of a surprisingly long hallway, Bram threw open some double doors. What had once been a ballroom had been converted into their evening training facility. Every light in the expansive room burned brightly. Someone—servants?—had moved all of their equipment inside. Weapons and protective padding littered the elegant carpet.
And in the center of it all, Olivia stood talking to her father.
How had the sneaky bastard known where to find them? Who had invited him inside?
The older man held her hand, patted it, but there was an urgency to his carriage. Even at a distance, Marrok discerned a rush of mumbled words. Then Richard saw him. And fell silent, his face closing up.
Ah, guilt. It was so strong, he could almost smell it. Acrid. Annoying.
Every protective instinct rumbled to the surface, as Marrok tore across the room in long-legged strides. When he reached Olivia, he wrapped an arm around her and brought her close. Marrok glared at the unwelcome intruder. “Richard Gray, you were not invited here.”
“Actually, he was,” Olivia cut in. “By Sabelle and me.”
So she let Judas into their lair. Was this indicative of a deeper betrayal designed to win the bastard’s approval?
“Olivia called me to make certain I had survived the Anarki attack. I was glad to be assured that my daughter was unharmed.”
Marrok’s eyes narrowed at his mate. “As you see, I protected my mate. While you…what? Disappeared? Were you simply willing to let the Anarki capture your daughter?”
“Stop it! He helped thwart the Anarki by tricking Mathias into exile—at great personal risk—because it was the right thing to do,” Olivia protested. “I read about it.” She grabbed a book off a nearby table that had been shoved against the wall. “Why don’t you do the same?”
“I know how events must look to you,” Richard began. “But I swear, I have no alliance with Mathias. Do you realize how badly he wants me dead?”
Marrok grunted. “I suspect they would keep you alive long enough to lead them to the Doomsday Diary.”
“I deeply regret that I was ever a part of the Anarki. All I want now is to know my daughter. Please see reason. Mathias will look for her here. He knows exactly who fought beside you, so he will deduce where you hide.”
Bram snorted. “I would love to see him try to invade.”
“He knows better,” Richard assured. “He’ll find a more subtle way in. But rest assured, he will find it. He needs the book and believes that he must have Olivia to open it. Let her come with me. I know how to protect her. She should not be—”
“No!” Rage roared through Marrok. As long as Gray was determined to separate Marrok from his mate, he didn’t owe Olivia’s father any modicum of politeness.