Page 251 of A Dance of Water

"She—fuck." Tharen’s voice washed over her, soothing in its nearness. The quakes lessened. His words spilled out, shaky and mumbled as if he wasn’t aware anyone was truly listening. "I pleasured her. And she—these wings… Gods. She’s shaking. Is this my fault? Did I hurt her?"

His candor broke through the swells of pain ripping through her back.

"Tharen," she stuttered out, breathless.

A hand on her cheek forced her head from where it was tucked. She blinked blearily, seeing nothing but swaths of grey dust, caught in prismatic light. Her neck spasmed, sending ripples of agony down her spine and coursing through her limbs.

"Angel, can you hear me?" Az whispered near her, but not touching.

She nodded. Or at least, she thought she did.

Bastian spoke: "We have to go. We need to be long gone before dawn. The Temple Mothers will be arriving then to collect her."

"We can’t just leave. Vale’s unconscious. Tharen’s no help right now." Az’s warm sugary scent washed over her.

Her fingers weakly unfurled from the shirt she was gripping, reaching out blindly toward where she assumed the demon was, but fell back to her side, unable to manage more than a twitch of her digits.

"We have no choice," said Graves. "They cannot see her like this. No one can."

Tharen’s hand against her cheek tapped lightly. "Open your eyes. Don’t die." He wasbeggingher.

Something at her back fluttered in answer to his plea, making her gasp and arch forward into him, desperate to get away from the pain lancing down her back.

"Please—help m-me," Luella sobbed, blinking away tears as she tried to focus.

The mage’s white hair came into view. The severe cut of his jaw, the unforgiving shade of his eyes. His tanned skin. And on his cheek, a bloody handprint, small and delicate.Herhandprint. She swallowed, feeling hot liquid drip constantly from somewhere at her back. She dipped her chin, finding her gown soaked, her pale bare thighs coated in scarlet.

His hand moved from her cheek to her shoulder, and she flinched, the action sluggish from pain. Tharen’s fingers trailed across her shoulder blades to the base of her skull, over the knobs of her spine—and further. Each brush of his hands was a unique sort of agony. Something fluttered weakly at her back, pulling muscles she didn’t even know she had. It ached. Oh, it ached.

A new feeling arose—Tharen’s fingertips brushing over a part of Luella that was trembling and delicate and exposed. It felt as though her nerves were on top of her skin; every brush of his hand or whisper of air against her made her shake from electric anguish.

"Please." She was begging—for relief from the pain. She wanted not to feel anymore.

"You..." Tharen’s voice rumbled through her from how closely she was pressed to him. "Luella, you’re an ange?—"

Hearing faded. The tremors abated until she didn’t feel them at all.

Ebbing adrenaline left her breathless and exhausted. She grew aware of the state she was in, the way her thighs were banded around his hips, the constant drip of blood, something thick and tight tangling around her calves and midsection.

Her eyelids grew heavy.

Her wheezing breaths quietened to low, short huffs.

The sound of masculine voices came in and out. She tried to focus to distract herself from the pain. But it was growing hard to do anything but give in to the overwhelming agony.

"Temple Mothers…"

"Fuck the Temple Mothers! She’s more important than anything… can’t let them…"

Awareness grew dim. She tried to speak, but it resulted in a weak cough.

"Get the horses."

"How can you expect her to ride like this? She’s unfit for the journey."

"We have no choice."

Sounds faded.

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