Page 12 of Court of Wolves

“Do you recall that I’m a soldier with years of experience?”

Her eyes slid, excruciatingly slowly,dragging,to give him a flat look.

“Just checking,” he grunted, ignoring the spill of relief through his chest. “One touch from that kid and my head’s scrambled, so fuck knows what they did to you.”

“Nothing.” One raw word, but he believed her. But if those kids hadn’t done something to her, who had?

Wrath poured through Bryon’s chest in a dark cloud, raking up his magic even if it was locked in his body by the fucking cuff. Enryr. That was who they wanted to take her to. If he’dtouchedher…

He fisted his hands. “I’ve lost count of the number of traumatised recruits I’ve seen. Hell, traumatised generals. I’ve seen shit mess with their heads, seen the empty look in their eyes after they dragged themselves out of the Wolven Lord’s dark chasm by their fingertips. It’s the same look in your eye, princess.”

“I don’t care,” she said flatly, and he knew she didn’t just mean about soldiers he’d known in his past. She didn’t care about this conversation, didn’t want to speak, didn’t want him anywhere near her.

“Tough shit,” he grunted. “Start speaking.”

“Get fucked.”

“Aw, see, I told you you’d feel better if you insulted me.”

“Drop dead.”

“In this place, I might,” he grumbled.

When Maia whipped her head around to stare at him, the horror in her eyes became devastation and Bryon swore soundly. He’d never been good at talking even when hewasn’tlocked in a cell, hungry and cold and irritable.

“That may have been the wrong thing to say,” he admitted, dragging his palm down his face, calluses raking his skin.

“You think?” she snapped, but it was good to hear some life in her voice. Part of him wanted her to shout and scream at him, to let it all out. That was the part of him that was absolutelyfucking terrified right now. He shouldn’t be sitting here beside her. He should keep his distance.

And yet he said, “Talk to me.”

“What are you, my counsellor? Should I pretend there are potted ferns and flowing trails of water around us? What about sweet-smelling air and tiny, colourful cakes piled into a mountain on a side table?”

Bryon blinked. “What the fuck kind of counsellors are you going to? Mine were all in shitty backwater rooms that stank of cheap cologne and stale beer. The wallpaper added to the ambiance by peeling off the walls, and the only flowers there were the leaves hiding a woman’s tits in the inspirational poster on the wall.”

That… was too much. Oversharing. Saints strike him down, Bryon wanted to die.

Maia stared at him for five seconds. Ten. A heart attack would be well-timed right now. “I can’t believe you just used the word ambiance,” she said with a ghost of a laugh.

He’d made her laugh. Fuck.

Fucking motherfuckingfuck.Not good. Not fucking good. He was going to obsess over that, and obsession was thelastthing he needed.

“I can’t believe your therapy came withsnacks,”he grumbled.

Maia snorted. “You didn’t miss much. They were too sweet.”

“I like sweet things.”

Saints damn him. He needed to sew his fucking mouth shut.

Maia’s mouth thinned; she moved for the first time in hours to cross her arms over her chest. “Let me guess, you’re being all friendly and personable because you’re trying to warm me up to talking about my trauma.”

“You caught me.” She didn’t. Not even close. He blamed it on his fear and her ghostly silence.

“Not difficult to catch someone in a shithole this small,” Maia muttered, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, gold irises tinged bronze with reluctance. She fought an inner war; it was there in the tightness of her shoulders, her crossed arms, the sharp canine she raked over her chapped lip.

“Start with what happened when you left the cell,” he prompted. She shot him a death glare, but he ignored that, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

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