Page 165 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“No.”

“Azriel.” Ariadne put herself between him and the mage. “Listen to her.”

Whether he ignored her or just could not comprehend her words, she did not know. He stepped forward. “He’s my brother. I won’t leave him.”

“You are a liability.” Izara did not look up as she worked, first assessing the broken leg, then the arm. “Get out, or I’ll remove you.”

“No,” he repeated.

“Then I’ll leave, and he’ll die.”

Azriel grit his teeth and, after a moment of calculating, jabbed a finger at her. “If he dies because of you—”

“If he dies,” Izara snapped, finally glaring at him, “it is because his injuries were too severe, and you kept me from helping him. Out. Now.”

Ariadne pushed at Azriel’s chest. He glanced down at her, mouth a thin line, then turned to the door. At first, his feet did not move. He stared at the sitting room beyond with wide, silver-rimmed eyes.

When at last he stalked out, Ariadne followed and shut the door behind her. With Petre, Bella, and Oli, inside to help Izara, she had to place her faith entirely in the small group. No sooner had Azriel sat on a couch and buried his face in his hands than the screaming began.

#

Azriel couldn’t do this. Not again. The helplessness to stop the pain of someone he loved. It was like being in the Auhla again, locked in the cell, to hear the endless torment of the woman he loved.

Torture unto itself. Ehrun knew what he’d done when he ordered it. He’d reveled in it just as much as he enjoyed inflicting the physical agony on Ariadne.

And if it hadn’t been for Ariadne blocking the entrance to the room, Azriel would’ve ripped the door from the frame and gone after Izara—just as the mage knew he would.

“You have to trust her,” Ariadne said, but he could barely hear her. All that echoed in his ears were the screams.

Her screams. Madan’s screams. They mingled together like a cocktail of misery. Harmonizing just right so he could identify them both. Even the bond, usually so keen on adhering to Ariadne’s demands, wavered as though that horrible, uncontrollable part of him couldn’t differentiate the cries of pain.

“He’s going to die!” Azriel reached for the handle.

Ariadne blocked his path. “He will live. You will speak with him again soon.”

The room beyond her went quiet. He leaned a little closer, though the proximity was useless. Those inside spoke and drowned each other out. None of them were Madan’s voice.

“We should sit,” she said and urged him back toward the couch. Roque had left at the first sign of trouble, so they were alone. “Talk to me instead.”

Azriel nodded slowly and stepped away. He sank into the cushions again. Beside him, she sat too—though not as close as she once had. That she even deigned to be with him was a miracle. She could have left and returned to the Harlow Estate.

Gods, she could’ve left Madan in that cell.

“Tell me about your childhood.” Ariadne turned to look up at him.

He frowned. There had been so much of it that had been beautiful and good. The years before his mother’s death were filled with laughter and her love. Secret visits with his father in the woods where they laughed and wrestled, his father always letting him win. Chasing Madan through the house, listening to his mother sing, and reading in the garden would forever remain some of his fondest memories.

But they were a mere blink in comparison to the rest of his youth. His father had tried so hard to pick up where his mother left off. He took in Madan and never treated him any differently than Azriel. The laughter had disappeared, though, and no one sang lullabies. Dhemons had few books—most had been burned by the vampires when they arrived in the Keonis Valley.

“Aside from my mother’s death,” he finally said, “it was good. She loved us dearly, and my father always did his best for us.”

She remained neutral, though he saw the flicker of calculation at his words. My father. Not Madan’s father or the one he had once been cautioned to call that no matter what. Not her father.

“What was your mother like?” Ariadne cringed as another scream lit up the room.

Azriel’s heart cracked, and he braced himself against the sound. “She was kind to everyone, but I think she was scared.”

“Of what?”

---