Page 11 of Court of Wolves

The threat was like a lash on her soul. She flinched hard, and knew the motion travelled through his hand, knew he was aware of his power over her. He’d never needed a cuff.

So she closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and began to sing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

She was mute and staring, barely breathing, barely alive, and Bryon Erithian didn’t know what the fuckto do.

“It’s like sharing a cell with a corpse,” he muttered, trying, for approximately the thousandth time, to provoke her into speaking, blinking,any-fucking-thing.“Move, princess, you’re creeping me the fuck out.”

You swear too much,a soft feminine voice teased, a voice from his memory. He clenched his jaw, fighting through the familiar pain. He’d never really stopped hearing Nimara since his wife died. She’d yelled at him so many times to be kinder to Maia that he’d lost count. He was either haunted by her spirit or completely insane. Neither would surprise him.

“Come on, princess,” he huffed. “You not gonna argue with me? I thought that was your favourite hobby.”

Not a flicker of movement in her face, not a glimmer of life in those golden eyes.

“You don’t strike me as the type to give silent treatment,” he remarked, his body as tense as iron where he sat against the wall opposite. He was one fucking twitch away from launching across the cell and shaking her. “More like the type to lash out with sharp words and sharper truths and hand my ass to me.” Panicclawed its way up his chest when she kept staring ahead, looking right through him. “Not tempted?”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken this much to her. He didn’t know if he ever had. Since that first time they ran into each other in the compound, he’d been a snarling, condescending bastard—Nimara’s words, not his.

He knew exactly what Maia Isellien Delakore was, knew the weapon she’d been forged into, knew the ways she’d harmed people, manipulated people. She’d been her aunt’s pet weapon since her magic developed, and part of Bryon hated her for that, for her role in the queen’s empire. The empire that enslaved and slaughtered beastkind, that took his wife and son when they tried to flee. He’d been so fucking stupid to think he could sneak them out, to think they wouldn’t get caught. Beastkind always got caught. Or maybe if he’d known Azrail and the rebels then, they’d have made it out.

He knewexactlywhat Maia could do, what she had done, but she didn’t deserve him sneering and snarling at her. He’d only begun to consider what a life like that would be like for Maia these past few days, so aware of her that he tracked her every movement. It had taken him two hours to know she had serious trauma, and that being locked up tormented her. Another two to realise she was handling it, not letting that fear win, so she had alotof experience masking her fear. What had it been like in the Delakore Palace, among a court of cruel, heartless courtiers, the pet to the cruellest of them all? They’d locked her up, made her claustrophobic, butwhat else?

God, Bryon hated that he cared. He’d told himself not to, that none of this shit was worth the risk. He didn’tcarethat she was kind, and remarkably heroic, and had a sharp wit that made him want to smile against his will. She was adept with any weapon she drew, skilled enough with magic to threaten a saint, and ascourageous as any soldier he’d fought alongside. But it wasn’t worth it.

“Come on, princess,” he griped, focusing on where she sat across from him, her legs splayed crookedly on the floor where she’d slid down the wall, mud on her boots, ash on her jacket and jaw. Her hair was unbound, white strands tumbling messily over her shoulders, making her paler. She was usually colourful and golden and fierce. Now she looked like a ghost. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve. You don’t even want to argue? I’ll give you one free shot, one insult of your choosing.”

She’d certainly not been shy about insulting him before now. She snapped at him every chance she got. Maybe, he reluctantly admitted, because he did the same, and he’d set the hostile tone for their partnership. He had no interest in her,refusedto get anywhere near her, but it was a little fucking difficult to keep his distance when they were locked in a three-metre square brick together.

He cursed every last saint that thought this was funny. Clearly, they were playing a cosmic joke on Bryon, locking him up with the one woman who could kill whatever bits of him had survived Nimara’s and Col’s deaths. He’d been practically undead those first few years. He’d only come back to life in the compound, gifted a new purpose.

“And to think you call me a grumpy bastard,” he huffed, scowling across the cell at Maia and failing to hold the expression at that emptiness in her eyes, her slack, haunted features. “Come on, princess, say something. A single word. Or two—fuck off. Aren’t those your favourites where I’m concerned?”

Nothing. Fuck.Fuck!

Bryon dragged a hand over his head, digging his nails into his skull. What the hell was he supposed to do with a catatonic woman? And not justanycatatonic woman. With a growl offrustration, he pushed off the wall, the tension in his bones enough to snap him. He approached slowly, keeping on his knees so he didn’t loom over the princess and scare the shit out of her.

“Back off.”

Two words, dry and raw and quiet. They were a fucking victory. A miracle. Bryon did not back off, approaching her with more determination. “Actually, I don’t think I will. This patch of wall looks comfier than mine. Budge over, will you?”

She didn’t. Her stare remained unfocused on the opposite wall, but she’d spoken. That was more than she’d done since those black-eyed children had dumped her back in the cell. She’d been shaking all over them, silent, refusing to explain what the hell they’d done to her.

“What happened after those brats knocked me out?” he asked, softer than he intended. Every instinct in his stubborn soul warned him to be careful, to use caution. “I woke up with a bitch of a headache.”

Poor baby,he could almost hear the princess tease him, her voice as sharp as any sword. She hadn’t been shy about that in Eosantha, but now she was as quiet as the dead.

“What happened, princess?”

Her eyes flickered; that wassomething,a sign of life.

“I can’t help you unless you tell me,” he pressed, trying to smooth the edges of his rough voice.

“Why do you want to?”

He angled his face to look at her, and it no longer felt like a victory when he realised the emptiness in her eyes had turned to horror. Maybe that was why he muttered, “You know why.”

Her pale throat bobbed.

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