Marrying a Warhound (Cassian) novel Chapter 182

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**TITLE: Brute 182**
**Chapter 182**

**MATRON YARA’S POV**

As Matron Yara observed the impending assault on Atasha by her own men, an intoxicating rush of triumph coursed through her veins. She had orchestrated this moment, and now six burly soldiers were advancing, weapons raised high, poised to subdue the delicate consort. Yara’s heart raced with anticipation as she prepared to witness the fragile woman crumble under the weight of their aggression. This was the moment she had been waiting for, the culmination of her plans. She envisioned the screams, the desperate pleas for mercy, perhaps even a pitiful attempt by Atasha to mend herself or her companion Grace.

But the screams never materialized.

Before the first soldier could bridge the gap, Atasha sprang into action. This was no retreat, nor was it a calculated dodge reminiscent of the previous skirmish. No, this was a raw, explosive transformation. In a heartbeat, she shed her facade of fragility, her body snapping upright with an unexpected ferocity.

Yara blinked, her triumphant smirk freezing on her lips. That was far too swift!

“What…” she murmured, disbelief creeping into her voice.

Atasha forcefully shoved the injured Grace away from her, propelling herself forward instead of retreating. There was no dagger in her hand, no time for breath.

The first soldier, a hulking brute named Balthus, adorned with the sigil of a wolf’s hide, anticipated a struggle. Yet, Atasha met his charge with nothing but her bare hands. One hand latched onto his wrist, twisting his massive arm inward with an impossible strength. A sharp crack echoed through the study, a sickening sound that resonated deep within Yara’s chest. Balthus roared in agony, dropping his weapon and staggering sideways, clutching the shattered remnants of his forearm.

“You—” The Matron felt a lump form in her throat as she instinctively took a step back. “What are you waiting for? Capture her!”

The second soldier lunged forward, a short sword aimed menacingly at her ribs. Atasha didn’t bother to block; instead, she ducked under the swipe with a fluidity that made her seem almost ethereal. In a swift motion, her shoulder collided with the soldier’s abdomen, delivering a focused impact that left him gasping for air. As he doubled over, Atasha raised her hands, a predatory glint in her eyes.

Yara watched in horrified disbelief as Atasha’s fingers clamped around the man’s throat. There was no choking, no pressure; she simply pulled. A sickening tearing sound filled the air, akin to wet cloth being ripped apart, and the soldier’s gurgling cry was abruptly silenced. He fell to his knees, eyes wide with terror, hands scrambling futilely at the gruesome, gaping wound in his neck. Dark blood cascaded over her arm, soaking into the floor beneath them.

It was savagery, a primal violence that had nothing to do with the training these soldiers had undergone.

Yara’s breath hitched in her throat. What was happening? What was she witnessing?

The remaining four soldiers, all full-blooded werewolves trained for close-quarters combat, momentarily faltered, their instincts thrown off balance. They were powerful enough to crush human bones, yet they were unprepared for an opponent who fought with such reckless abandon, devoid of fear, strategy, or weaponry.

That brief hesitation proved to be their undoing.

Atasha seized the moment, her movements a blur of inhuman grace, propelled by a manic strength that belied her slender frame. She disregarded the injured soldiers, her sole focus now on the fresh threats before her.

With a fierce determination, she collided with the third soldier. He attempted to grasp her, relying on his superior weight, but she slipped past his grasp like water flowing through fingers. Twisting her body, her elbow shot upward with bone-crushing force, connecting with his chin. His helmet flew off, and his head snapped back, the impact rendering him instantly unconscious. As his body pitched forward, Atasha caught his falling weapon—a heavy, serrated knife.

But this knife was not meant for stabbing; it was a tool of butchery.

With ruthless efficiency, she plunged the blade into the man’s chest, then wrenched it sideways, tearing through flesh and ribs. Blood sprayed outward in a thick, crimson cloud, splattering against the wall behind Cassian’s desk. The soldier crumpled to the ground, leaving the knife embedded deep within the grotesque wound.

Yara instinctively recoiled, colliding with one of her flanking guards. The metallic stench of fresh, warm blood assaulted her senses, sharp and overwhelming. This was no mere fight; this was an execution.