He isn’t going to let this happen.

“You have one last chance to speak,” he says with quiet menace and lays his hand on me again, digging his nails into the soft tissue of my forearm. “Do you want to be Claimed?”

The only choice I have is to stick with the prescribed Claiming script and hope the Commander refuses to make a scene in front of the citizens for fear more of them might rise up and demand the opportunity to choose their own destiny as well.

“I bow to the wishes of my Protector,” I say, and fury explodes across the Commander’s face.

He twists my arm and yanks me forward, breaking Logan’s hold on my dress. “You realize what this means?” he asks me in a voice only I can hear. “I will kill him for your betrayal, Rachel. Renounce this Claiming and leave as planned, or I will leave you with nothing.”

“Let go of her.” Logan’s voice, laced with terrible purpose, rings out across the Square.

The crowd erupts into a frenzy of hushed conversation, and the Commander twists my arm until I’m sure he means to wrench it from its socket. Pain is a living thing clawing at me, and I turn my face to look at Logan.

I need to know the plan. How to keep Logan alive and avoid being separated from him. I expect to see steady calculation in Logan’s eyes. Instead, I see blind fury. His hand is already reaching for his sword as the Commander drives me to my knees.

He’s going to attack the Commander. Try to kill him. And the Commander will stab a sword through him the way he stabbed a sword through Oliver and then laugh while I sit in silence, soaking up every drop of blood until my skin is flushed crimson with the shame of my impotence.

The brilliant rage surging within me coalesces into one fierce purpose.

Save Logan.

“I don’t want to be Claimed,” I say, and each word drops to the ground like a stone. I pray Logan will understand.

“You deny your current Protector’s authority over you?” The Commander asks, his voice steeped in vicious triumph.

“I do.”

Logan isn’t looking at me. He’s locked on the Commander, who still has my arm twisted above me, pinning me in a supplicant’s position below him. His hand grips the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white.

If he loses control, the Commander wins.

And with the Brute Squad cutting off all escape routes, Logan doesn’t stand a chance.

“What do you say to that, Logan McEntire?” The Commander looks at Logan, while the crowd moves uneasily, backing away from the stage.

I don’t give Logan a chance to answer. With our plan in shambles, and my back against the wall, I say the only thing that could possibly keep him safe. “It doesn’t matter what he says. He isn’t my true Protector. I petition to be a ward of the state.”

The Commander doesn’t spare me a glance, so I raise my voice. “Do you accept me as a ward of the state?”

Some of my fury leaks into my tone, and I raise my chin. I don’t care. Let him know I’m angry. Let him see the bloodlust on my face. Let him look into my eyes and discover the girl he thought he understood is gone and in her place stands a weapon of his own creation.

He turns his head slowly to stare at me, his scar pulling his lip into a snarl, and lets go of my arm to backhand me across the face.

I tumble to the floor and see Logan, sword raised, face ablaze, charge the Commander.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

RACHEL

“No!”

I’m screaming, but it’s too late. The girls on the stage scatter, their fathers dragging them to safety as the Brute Squad swarms onto the platform, coming between Logan and the Commander. Logan drives his shoulder into the first guard who reaches him, sends the man flying off the stage, and whirls to block the sword thrust of another.

The Commander stands above me and laughs.

I slide my hand into the slit I cut in the side of my skirt, find my sheath, and pull my knife free.

Someone calls my name, and I see Sylph break away from Smithson’s hold and rush toward the stage.

“Go back!” I yell and struggle to my feet, my knife ready.

Smithson catches her around the waist before she can reach me, and she slaps at him. I turn away, praying Logan isn’t already dead.

He isn’t. He fights like a man possessed—swinging, thrusting, and attacking with terrifying speed and force, disarming and disabling every opponent who comes at him. I had no idea he had this in him, and it’s clear I’m not the only one.

The Commander stops laughing and draws his own sword.

Raising my knife, I calculate the angle I’ll need to drive the blade through his back and into his heart. Before I can thrust the weapon forward, I’m body slammed from the side and sent sailing off the platform and into the crowd of eligible townsmen still milling at the base of the stage, unsure what their role in this unprecedented display of violence should be.

Hands reach for me, steady me, and try to hold me back. I punch, kick, and swing my knife until they back away. I can’t save Logan unless I’m on the stage. Anyone standing between me and him is dead.

I race toward the steps, beating away the few that still reach for me, but before I can mount the stage, a guard jumps in front of me. I drive my knife through his stomach, twist it to the right, and yank it free while he’s still in the act of telling me to halt.

Crimson splashes onto my pretty blue skirt. I look away from it and concentrate on reaching Logan. I’m on the stage driving my knife into the back of the guard blocking that exit before he even knows what hit him. Not stopping to see if he’s dead, I vault over his body and try to see Logan.