I guide her to a stop in Center Square. She stands still, looking at our feet, and I whistle for a driver. She jerks away from me at the sound, and trembles.

My heart hurts as I gather her to me again and say, “It’s okay, Rachel.”

She leans into me, closes her eyes, and breathes deeply. I press my lips to the crown of her head, and watch the driver ease his wagon to a stop in front of us.

I give my address to the driver and try to tug her toward the back of the wagon.

She digs her heels in and pulls against my arm.

“You don’t need to walk. We’ll take a ride home. It’ll be easier on you this way,” I say, and something within her breaks loose.

She twists free of my arm and takes off.

I race after her as she cuts through Center Square and flies into South Edge. I’m a fool. Of course he picked her up in a wagon. He wasn’t going to hurt her on the streets where anyone could see and begin questioning why the Commander feels himself so far above the standard he sets for every other man in the city.

She turns a corner and slides into an alley. I follow just in time to see her stumble and fall toward the cobblestones. Lunging forward, I catch her, twisting my body so that I land on the street beneath her.

Her breath scrapes my ear in harsh pants, and she’s shaking from head to toe. I gather her to my chest and say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My voice breaks, and I have to swallow hard to get the next words out. “I didn’t know he had you in a wagon. I was trying to spare you the long walk home. I’m sorry.”

She feels unbelievably fragile in my arms. I don’t know how to get us home without hurting her further, but my options are limited.

A trio of men, swords drawn, block the mouth of the alley. The middle one smiles wide enough to show gaps where his teeth should be, and says, “Give us yer money and no one gets hurt.”

For one brief, blazing second, I imagine honing the rage blistering through me into something I can use to obliterate the sorry excuses for human beings who dare to threaten us now. It wouldn’t be hard. They’re drunkards. Already shaking with withdrawal. Desperate to have just enough money for their next jug.

As tempting as the idea is, the confrontation isn’t worth it. I can toss a small handful of coin away from us and walk out of the alley as they scramble across the filthy cobblestones to snatch it.

Or I could if I didn’t have to worry about getting Rachel home.

Looking up, she sees the men and freezes. I’m about to coach her on my exit strategy when she sucks in a raspy breath, and her expression goes from blank to feral in a heartbeat. She pushes against my chest and leaps to her feet. I stand as well, reaching out a cautionary hand to her.

“They just want money. I’ll take care of it.”

She isn’t listening. Shoving my hand away from her, she curls her lip into a fierce snarl. Before I can stop her, she whips her knife out of its sheath, raises it above her head, and rushes toward the men.

“Rachel, no!” I grab for my sword as the men brace themselves for her attack. I race for her, but I’m too late.

Aiming for the man in the middle, she ducks beneath his raised sword arm and launches herself into him. They both slam into the street, but I don’t have time to see if she’s okay. The other two are attacking me.

I block, parry, thrust, and slice, but I can barely focus. Rachel is screaming, harsh bursts of sound that flay the air. I slam the butt of my sword into the man closest to me, whirl to block a blow from the other. Rachel rises from the inert body of the first man, her eyes desperate and wild, and races to jump on the back of the man I’ve just hit. She drives the tip of her knife into the soft tissue beneath his throat, and he raises his arm and drops his sword in surrender.

The man I’m fighting glances at them, and I take advantage of his distraction to lower my shoulder and body-slam him into the filthy brick wall beside us. I turn back to see the other man punch Rachel’s knife hand away from his throat. The tip gouges his skin as it goes and a stream of blood arcs through the air. Rachel watches it and comes undone.

The man throws her to the ground, but she kicks his legs out from beneath him, and scrabbles across him, that terrible scream still ripping its way out of her throat as she punches, kicks, and tries to stab him with her knife.

I yell her name until my throat is hoarse, but she can’t hear me, and the two of them are too tangled up for me to intervene without injuring her. I ready myself for the first available opportunity, and watch in horror. She takes his blows like they’re nothing. Digging her nails into his skin as if it’s a wall she has to climb, she claws her way up his body. She slams her knife hilt into his forehead, rendering him nearly senseless, and then flips her weapon around and drives the blade toward his throat.

I knock her off him from the side before the blade finds skin, and she sprawls on the cobblestones, her knife skittering across the alley.

She pushes herself up to her hands and knees and crawls toward it.

Leaping ahead of her, I reach it first. Grasping it, I turn and approach her carefully. Her eyes are that of a panicked animal cornered and fighting for her life. Her voice is nearly gone from screaming. She reaches for her knife, but I hold it away from her.

“Rachel.” I breathe her name in a voice full of pain.

She looks at me, eyes still glassy from shock, and reaches for the knife again.

“They just wanted money,” I say softly. “Just money. You don’t need your knife.”