Marrying a Warhound (Cassian) novel Chapter 183

**TITLE: Brute 183**

**Chapter 183**

**MATRON YARA’S POV**

For a fleeting moment, Yara found herself frozen in place, her mind racing yet her body unresponsive.

“You-You—”

The study, once a serene retreat for the Lord, now resembled a gruesome slaughterhouse. Six men—six of her finest warriors—were sprawled across the plush rugs and Cassian’s cherished desk, their bodies grotesquely twisted, blood pooling around them like dark ink on parchment. Throats had been savagely torn open, bones lay shattered, and skulls bore the marks of brutal impacts against the unforgiving wood. At the heart of this carnage stood Atasha, small and frail in appearance, yet her breath came in heavy gasps, her face and hands glistening with crimson.

Then, as if sensing Yara’s gaze, Atasha turned her head.

Their eyes locked.

In that instant, the last remnants of Yara’s confident smirk evaporated, choked in her throat.

What she saw in Atasha’s eyes was not the reflection of the frail, swaying girl who had leaned on her attendant in the bustling square. No, these were not the eyes of a frightened woman; they were dark yet vibrant, alive with a feral intensity that sent chills racing down Yara’s spine. It felt as though an invisible hand had wrapped itself around her very core.

This was not the Atasha she had studied, tested, and sought to expose.

This was something far more sinister, something wearing her familiar face like a mask.

Unintentionally, Yara stepped back, colliding with the solid chest of the guard positioned behind her. He flinched, his fingers tightening around the spear he held, and she could sense the tremor coursing through his grip.

Use her, a voice in Yara’s mind urged, persistent and tempting. A weapon like this could shift the balance against the King, against anyone who dared oppose her.

She crushed that thought immediately, the weight of it heavy in her chest.

No. A creature capable of slaughtering six trained werewolves with her bare hands was not someone she would ever trust to guard her back. Yara was ambitious, yes, but she was not foolish enough to court death.

“Kill her,” she commanded sharply, the urgency in her voice sharper than she had intended. She turned to the hooded man beside her, the one still clutching the pulsating stone. “Do you hear me? Kill her. Kill her for me!”

The man jerked as though awakening from a deep slumber, lifting his hand to raise the stone between himself and Atasha. Its glow, which had burned steadily over Lucas and Grace, began to pulse more rapidly, a frantic heartbeat in the chaos.

Yet, Atasha remained undeterred, stepping forward with a deliberate grace that filled Yara with dread.

Her foot sank into the soaked rug, leaving a dark imprint behind her. She did not even glance at the stone; her focus was solely on Yara. Then, with a casual ease, a smile spread across her lips, a chilling sight that sent shivers through Yara’s veins.

The hooded man’s breathing quickened beneath his cloak. He extended his other hand toward Atasha, fingers splayed wide as if he were pushing against an unseen force.

Yara felt it immediately—a strange pressure, the same suffocating weight that had pinned Lucas and Grace earlier. It rolled through the room like a dark tide, pressing against her skin and bones, filling her ears with a deafening ring. Her knees trembled, and she could hear one of the guards behind her grunt, his shoulders bending under the invisible strain.

Atasha did not falter.

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