by Frost Kay
“Do you remember what I told you when we were at the Nagali palace?” he rumbled.
“You said many things.”
“I gave you my word that I would not hurt you and yours as long as they did not hurt me.” His jaw clenched. “You left. You betrayed us. You struck first.”
Us? Unease slithered through her belly. “Do you hear yourself? Look at my neck. You chained me like an animal. From the moment I was kidnapped and taken into your kingdom, I was mistreated and manipulated. Don’t you dare lay your crimes at my feet. There’s only one monster in this room.” Her back touched the tent flap. So close.
The warlord nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So, you hate me?”
“Hate is too weak of a word to describe what I feel for you. I am disgusted and destroyed by what you’ve done. You can’t come back from that.”
“True. But why would I when it’s led me to everything I’ve ever desired?” He gave her a small, soft smile that confused her. It was the only warning she got before the warlord moved.
Sage spun and sprinted forward into the outer room. She made it only four steps when he caught her. Terror exploded in her chest, but she fought it back. This was part of the plan. She screamed and fought, thrashing in his arms as he lifted her from the ground.
“We love a good fight,” he murmured in her left ear. “Please keep struggling, we’d love to punish you. It’s what you deserve, after all.”
Chills ran down her arms at the use of we. Sage swung her right arm across her chest, her sweat-slicked fingers holding tighter to the nail and slammed it into his neck once, twice, three times. The warlord grunted, and his arms loosened. Sage darted from his grasp and spun to face him. He blinked at her and growled while pulling the nail free. He held it in the air and squinted at the weapon.
“You’re always a surprise,” he rasped, smiling like a maniac. Dropping to his knees, he clutched at his neck, crimson liquid spurting from between his fingers.
Sage blinked at the liquid. It was red. It disturbed her. In her mind, she imagined him to have black blood running through his veins. Blood bubbled on his lips, and she stood there numbly watching.
Everything faded. There wasn’t anger, triumph, relief, or joy. Just numbness.
He gurgled, and the haunting sound pulled her back to reality. She needed to get out of there now. Sage ran around the table and darted back into the bedroom area of the tent and tugged on her boots and then her cloak. Where was Nege? There wasn’t time to find him. Hopefully, with the warlord gone, he’d find a better way to live.
She eyed the entrance to the rest of the tent, terrified she’d find the warlord standing on the other side of it. It was too risky to take any chances. Sage yanked at her braid and pulled the ring out. She pushed it onto her finger and steeled her nerves as she lifted the tent flap. He was now lying on the floor, eyes closed. Her escape was so close, but she couldn’t leave without accomplishing her task. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she approached her fallen monster and slapped him on the side of the neck, her ring pricking him. How long should she wait? Her gaze darted to the exit of the tent. Every moment that passed was another she could be caught.
A whisper of sound pulled her attention back to the warlord. His pitch-black eyes stared up at her, that insane smile still on his face. Sage blanched and scrambled back, her boots slipping in the blood and her fingers tightening against the ring. She fell against the wall as he tracked her movements. How was he still alive? He’d lost so much blood. Wicked hell, she needed to get out of there.
Just as he began to rise to his knees, she backed up to the exit and another pair of hands encircled her biceps. Sage growled and kicked at the hateful commander who’d snuck up on her.
“Going somewhere?” the warlord whispered through blood covered lips. His grin grew, baring scarlet-stained teeth. “Remember, you attacked first, consort. I promise you that I won’t enjoy this next part, and it will hurt me more than you. Just pray you can take the pain your people will suffer. Retribution will rain from the sky.”
Thirty-Eight
Mira
Mira pulled the bandage from Gav’s leg. It wasn’t looking good. The wound had festered, and pus oozed out . Angry red lines fanned out from the wound across the skin like an insidious spiderweb. Poisoning of the blood. It was starting.
“You need to take it,” a masculine voice said from behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder at the newcomer. Virdan, the Methian healer. He was only a handful of years older than her, but he acted like she was just a child. “Keep your voice down,” Mira commanded softly. Gav hadn’t been sleeping well, and she’d be damned if she let that haughty healer wake him.
Turning back to her friend, she plucked the rag from the bowl of water sitting next to her left foot. Gently, she dabbed the wet cloth across his forehead. Immediately, Gav’s brow smoothed. At least there was something she could do to soothe his discomfort. She focused back on the airing wound.
“It needs to be done,” Virdan said, rounding Gavriel’s bed. The Methian healer brushed his dark hair out of his eyes that were more silver than grey.
She ignored him. His leg didn’t need to be amputated.
“Don’t ignore me. It has to be done, and you know it.”
Mira glared up at him, hating that he was towering over her. She stood and rounded the cot, her skirts swishing with her jerky movements. “I won’t do it.”
He crossed his arms. “It’s your job to do it.”
“We’re not to that point yet,” she reasoned, trying to keep her temper in check. Virdan was already getting on her nerves, and he’d only been working with her for three days.
“Look at the lines, Mira. He’s worsened.”
“You’ve been here for only a short while. Don’t presume to tell me what to do with my patient.”
His silver eyes pinned her to the spot, his lips thinning. “If we don’t amputate, he’ll die.”
“You don’t know that,” she argued. “And do you know how many survive such a surgery? Not even a fifth of the wounded survive. A fifth. I cannot take that risk.”
Virdan’s eyes narrowed, and he studied her in a way that made her feel naked. “Is he your mate?”
She blinked slowly. “No.” Why in the blazes would he ask something so preposterous?
“You’re emotionally attached to him.”
“He’s a friend.”
“So, let me do this.”
“No.”
He shook his head. “You’re going to kill him.”
Mira’s spine snapped straight. She’d never felt like slapping a man more than in this moment. “How dare you,” she hissed. “Get out!”
“When you get yourself under control, let me know.” Virdan stalked out of the small room.
What a pompous, arrogant, self-righteous bastard. What he was suggesting was dangerous for a healthy man, let alone Gavriel, who was full of infection. What was that brute thinking? Amputation rarely worked. Most times, the patient died, or—she swallowed hard—they just gave up. Life was not kind to someone who was viewed by some as broken. They were shunned, made fun of, or accused of the worst crimes just because of the way they looked. Mira would spare him that sort of prejudice and pain by keeping the leg as long as possible. People could be so small minded. A disability didn’t make one incomplete.
A hand seized her skirt, startling her. Her gaze flew to Gav. His lavender, bloodshot eyes held wildness. “Don’t let them take my leg.”
Mira dropped to her knees and pressed his heated hand between her two palms. “I won’t.”
“Promise me!” he demanded, sweat dripping down his neck.
She swallowed hard and lied. “I promise.” While now was not the time to take the limb, if there came a point where it was either his life or the leg, she knew what she’d have to do. Stars help her if it came to that.
Gav closed his eyes and sank back into a restless sleep. Mira pulled away, collected her clea
nsed scalpel, and called for help. Two burly soldiers entered.
“Wash up and then hold him down. We need to cut out the infected flesh.”
They did as she bid, and Mira gently placed a piece of leather between Gavriel’s teeth before picking up a wickedly sharp blade. She ran it through the fire in the corner and then approached the bed.
“Don’t let him move.” She knelt by his ear and whispered, “Don’t fight us. If you want to keep your leg, you need to let me cut out the dead flesh.” Mira moved to his thigh and placed the tip of the dagger on the edge of his jagged wound. “Ready? One, two, three!”
“Damn it, Gav. It’s been a day. You have to fight!” Mira said harshly, her head in her hands. “I’m not taking your leg. I’m not doing it!”
She pushed dirty hair from her face and lifted her head. Gavriel thrashed on his bed, murmuring something incoherent. She leaned her cheek on the mattress, making sure not to put pressure on her black eye, and stared at the brazier burning in the corner. When she’d lanced his wound the day prior, he’d come out swinging. He was lucky she’d pulled the blade away swiftly enough when he’d backhanded her across the face, or she could have caused more damage to his leg. Mira wiggled her jaw. It hurt. Even her gums and teeth seemed to ache. The man knew how to throw a punch.
She frowned and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, his hot skin heating hers as she checked his pulse. His fever had skyrocketed in the last day. None of her efforts had done anything. The fever had just climbed and climbed. Today, the wound didn’t seem worse, but his fever worried her. Had the infection spread? Was Virdan right? What use did she have if she couldn’t heal him? How many had she lost already?
Mira squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled a shallow breath. You can’t allow yourself to think that way.
Logically, she understood that no one could save everyone, but of late, it seemed like everyone she laid her hands upon died. A lone tear dripped down her cheek. Gav couldn’t die. Although they hadn’t been best friends growing up, he was still her friend. They’d practically been raised together, running around the palace and stables as young children. His wife Emma had been one of her few close friends before she died. It still killed Mira that Gav had sent Isa back to his estate when Emma died. Mira hadn’t even recognized Isa when she’d come to her for healing a few months back. If Gav died, who did that little girl have?
“Mmmm…” Gav mumbled.
Quickly, she sat up and scanned his pallid face. “Gavriel?” His eyes moved beneath his lids, but he didn’t wake. She pulled a waterskin from the small table sitting to her left and dripped a little liquid between his parched lips. He gurgled but then swallowed the water. As she pulled her right hand away, his hand snapped up, his fingers curling around her wrist.
She froze, staring down at him. “Gav?”
He mumbled, and his calloused thumb stroked the delicate skin of the underside of her wrist. Mira jolted at the soft touch.
“Need more,” he murmured.
“More water? I can do that.” She stood and lifted the waterskin back to his lips, but he didn’t drink. “What do you need—”
He jerked on her arm, causing her to tumble onto him. Mira cursed and tried to backpedal, her knee bumping his leg.
“No,” he moaned, sinking his other hand into her hair.
She gasped and tried to pull back, but she was effectively trapped. “Wake up!” Sweat broke out across her skin as she struggled to get up without hurting him.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
Her gaze flew to his face at the quiet plea, just as he leaned in. Mira shook her head, but Gav’s hand buried in her hair kept her immobile. Hard lips captured hers, brutal and ravenous. A kiss of possession. What in the bloody hell was happening?
She opened her mouth to protest, but he took the opening she’d unintentionally given him. His silky tongue slipped into her mouth, all heat. A tremble worked through her at the sensation, his taste of mint and lemon on her tongue. Mira struggled against him, managing to turn her head to the side to suck in a breath. Gavriel’s roughened cheek rasped against her throat.
“You need to let me go,” she commanded, panting. Her heart pounded like a drum when he released her wrist but slid his arm around her, bringing her into a powerful embrace.
“I’ll never let you go, Emma,” he murmured.
Mira’s heart shattered for him. She clasped his cheeks between her palms. “It’s a dream, Gav. It’s Mira, not Emma. Open your eyes. You need to let me go so I don’t hurt your leg further.”
He didn’t open his eyes. Instead, his hand slid up her back, locking her into place as he hauled her closer and ran his tongue down her neck toward her cleavage and nipped her tender skin.
That was not happening.
She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and yanked his head back. “That is enough of that! Wake up!”
Gav groaned and blinked his eyes slowly. He stared at her face, his pupils blown wide. Mira looked down at him, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. For a moment, time was suspended as they both watched each other. Slowly, reality started to creep in, and with it, his awareness filtered in. His brows slashed together in a confused frown.
“What are you doing on top of me?” he asked, his tone holding suspicion.
Mira flushed and gritted her teeth. As if she’d assault a sick, unsuspecting man. “You asked for water, and I was helping when you tugged me onto your bed.”
His scowl deepened, and it felt like he was accusing her of something.
She glared down at him. “You were dreaming.”
“Dreaming?”
“Yes,” she said sharply. “Now release me.”
He still did not. “I don’t understand.”
Mira blew out a breath and winced when she realized she’d have to give him more. “You were mumbling Emma’s name. Now, please remove your hands from my person. I need to check your wound.”
His expression flattened at the mention of Emma’s name, and his fingers flexed. She squeaked when she realized the hand that used to be on her back was cupping her bum. “Kindly take your hand from my arse, Gav.”
He jerked and tore his hands away from her. Mira hissed and scrambled off him, conscious of his wound. The blanket covering his nude body had shifted, and she pointedly looked away while he re-covered himself, panting with the effort.
“How’s the pain?” she forced out, a little breathless. Get yourself together.
He didn’t answer, only stared at the ceiling of the tent. Mira shook out her dress and moved around the bed, back to her stool. “I need to check the wound again,” she said as she sat.
Gavriel’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer.
She forced her mind away from what had happened and checked his leg. It didn’t look worse. Lowering the blanket, she wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “I’m going to brew some tea to help with the fever. I’ll be right back.”
He still didn’t look at her, his gaze shuttered.
She bustled toward the exit, her skin feeling tight and itchy.
“Mira.”
She paused and stared at the tent flap.
“I would never have done that if I was in my right mind.”
Mira flinched but nodded. “Understood. No offense is taken.” Her first kiss, and he admitted that, in his right mind, he would never have looked in her direction. That hurt. She didn’t even care for him that way, but it still hurt.
She bustled from the room, catching the queen’s eyes as she moved through the infirmary. “He’s awake and needs some willow bark tea. I need to take a break.” Mira lengthened her stride and exited the infirmary, the winter air biting her flushed skin. Tipping her head back, she counted to one hundred and focused on slowing her galloping heart.
Her first kiss.
And he’d ruined it.
Bastard.
Thirty-Nine
The Warlord
Sage had stabbed him.
The iron taste o
f his blood still lingered in his mouth.
While he’d known that she’d make her move, he hadn’t believed it would have been in the fashion it was. Liquid dripped down his throat, and he spat blood and saliva onto the pristine snow, ignoring the fearful looks being tossed his way.
They were not worried for him, but for the punishment that would come.
Punishment, the voices crooned softly.
For once, he agreed with them. Sage had shown that his expectations of forging her into a proper consort were futile until she learned her place. She had to know her actions would have consequences.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She begrudgingly padded next to him, her movements stiff as she took in his camp—or what he was allowing her to see. Cuffs circled her wrists, and the chains clinked together in the silence. While she portrayed a calm demeanor, he knew better. Power and rage boiled just beneath the surface. A satisfied smile crossed his face.
From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, Zane had seen her potential. He’d molded her slowly over time—now all that was left was to put her into the flames of the forge to truly transform her into something remarkable. As they moved to the back of the camp, his warriors stopped what they were doing and joined the entourage.
His consort ignored them all and held her head high. Pride swelled in his chest. She was a work of art. She ignited something inside him. Jacobi pressed closer from the right, and Sage jerked away from his commander almost stumbling into Zane.
Mine, the voices snarled.
As if he too heard the voices, Zane’s commander glanced in his direction. Horror flashed across Jacobi’s face, and he put space between himself and Sage.
That was better.
No one touched what was his.
As if drawn by a loadstone, Zane glanced at his consort’s stony expression.