Page 147 of Vicious Is My Throne

He staggered down the ruined main hall, his legs almost as unsteady as my own, diverting into the wrecked room where Bexley had set up shop, dodging torn books and shattered glass strewn across the floor while heading for the wood piled beside the hearth.

His hands shook as he stacked the logs then blew a fiery breath into their center, warm golden light flickering then blazing up with a heated roar. He pulled me against him, and I closed my eyes against the tears threatening to fall.

“We’re okay, Anaria.” His arms wrapped around me tighter than any blanket, his heat sinking in deep as I snuggled against him. “The others will be here soon, then Raz will heal you.”

His knuckles dragging slowly down the hurting side of my face was the last thing I remembered, until I woke up wrapped in a blanket, him tugging a shirt over my head smelling faintly of mothballs. “This was all I could find that would fit. I have breeches, too, but they might have to wait.”

I tried to talk, but my tongue felt thick, my mouth stuffed full of cotton.

“Your leg is bad, Anaria. So is your face.” He guided my arm through a sleeve, then pressed the keystone back into my hand. “Here. This seems to be helping slow the infection. I don’t have healing magic, and it’s been over an hour, but they aren’t here yet.”

His voice was calm, unhurried, but I felt his unease like it was my own, a vise-like tightness inside my chest, gnawing at me with every worried glance toward the door.

Once he dressed me, Tristan tipped a glass to my lips, and I wanted to sob when clean, cold water slid down my dry throat.

“You drink this, then I’ll search through the debris, see if Bex had any healing herbs or potions I can salvage. There has to be something in this mess to slow down the infection.”

My blood ran cold at every carefully enunciated word, at the fear that filled his eyes, how badly his elegant hands shook when he lowered the empty glass and set it aside. “Unless you can use your magic like you did before?”

“Bex…ley.” I meant to say last time Bexley helped, boosting my magic with his, guiding me through the process, but all I could get out was one lousy word.

“Not here, not yet.” Tristan’s head shot up and he stared hard at the door, frowning. “Maybe soon, though. Maybe…”

His eyes flared wide, and he reached for me, mouth open in a scream.

Then Tristan was gone, a swirl of cold, bitter air taking his place.

I knew who’d dragged him away, even before I heard her laughter floating down the hall filled with that gloating arrogance I despised. The palace was silent, but she was here, waiting, like a fat, bloated spider in the dark, waiting for me to wander into her web.

A low, keening groan echoed past the room, barely audible over the crackling fire. Then another.

And another.

After the first one, I was already pushing myself up, my leg screaming, hand shooting out to grip the mantle in a desperate bid to keep myself standing long enough for my mind to clear.

Long enough to make a few desperate preparations.

Before I limped down the hall toward my sister’s laughter.

63

ANARIA

Molten rage turned to ice when I stepped into the suspended room and saw what Gelvira had done.

Mist from the waterfalls blew straight through one wall of windows and out the other side, water beading on my face, the shirt becoming a second skin.

Tristan was fucking nailed to the floor with long shards of glass spiked into the marble, blood spreading in a shockingly bright-red pool beneath him. He lifted his head an inch, fury burning in his eyes. “Get out of here, Anaria. This is exactly what she wants.”

With every move, the glass sliced deeper through Tristan’s skin, widening the wounds which had severed every vein. Stay very still, I thought as hard as I could, and his eyes widened.

“Let him go.”

“Give me back what is rightfully mine.”

“Gladly. Release Tristan and I will give you the magic. I never wanted this fucking power anyway.”

“Oh, Anaria. You are too much like your father, I’m afraid.”

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