Page 47 of A Dance of Water

"Achy. Sore," she replied. "Can I sit up?"

Suddenly, she felt a tug deep in her gut, and Bastian stepped forward. He appeared withdrawn, and his elegant features were shuttered. She could not tell what he was thinking, but as his eyes fell from hers, down to her lips, then dipped further to her neck, memory washed over her like the cool lick of waves against bare toes.

Graves had held a blade to her neck. And what else…

Luella blinked. Silky black hair and eyes like emeralds. Pale fingers entwined with a soft, small hand. Laughter.

She blinked again. The images turned darker. Violent. Shattered wine bottles and teary eyes, running through woods, and a name being called out into the treetops.

If only she could remember what that name was.

Cold hands gently touched her shoulders, urging her to sit up. Bastian fluffed a few pillows behind her. "Okay?"

She nodded. Her head felt too heavy for her neck to hold up, so she rested back against the soft pillow the vampire had placed under her head.

Sitting up, she could see more of the room. The bedwaslarge, placed right in the center of a room laced with gold and white decor, a few bits of black were interspersed with taste—a fluffy rug by the fire, two dark armchairs sitting before it, drapes over the windows that were pulled tightly.

A table was by the bed, and she saw a few empty glasses resting on it next to a half-empty bottle of amber liquid.

Luella cleared her throat. "Water?"

Bastian’s hands left her, and he went to the side of the room, gathering a pitcher filled with clear liquid. He poured it into one ofthe glasses and pressed it into her hands before settling back down on the side of the bed.

The glass was cold in her hands, but pleasantly so. Her skin felt hot, and she took greedy sips of the water, draining the whole glass.

Tharen took the empty glass from her hands before she could ask for more. "No more," he said.

"You’ll make yourself sick." Bastian reached a finger out and traced over her white hair, following the path he made over the sleep-rumpled, frizzy strands like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

She already felt sick.

"Where am I? What happened?" The pounding in her head had eased slightly from the cool water, but her chest still ached. She tried to reach up and touch again, but Az caught her hand. He was so warm, and his hands shook. Her lower lip trembled.

"Do you feel… pained?" The demon looked pained, himself.

She took a moment to ground herself. Her chest burned, growing hotter if she focused on it. Her limbs ached like she had run for days. Her legs were sore, and her head was still throbbing, but less so with each breath she took.

It was nothing to the mental anguish that gripped her with ferocity. The not-knowing, the gaps in her memories where they could have done anything, waking up in a strange room in a strange bed with her captors crowded around her with guilt flickering in their eyes.

"I’ll survive," she said softly. Tharen’s lips pursed as though he was proud but did not want to say so. "Tell me, where have you brought me to?"

Burning embers and spiced, dull sweetness tickled against her nose. The King and Graves stepped into the flickering light. The raven shifter wore simple clothes, and his face was uncovered. The King’s green eyes burned as they swept over her with unwavering focus. She felt like a specimen to be studied under such a stare.

"What do you remember?" King Vale inquired, perching on the foot of the bed. Graves stood at his back, a silent sentinel.

"We… There was a celebration and…" Her skin grew hot under all five of their stares. "Did I pass out?"

Graves shook his head, reaching down to settle his hand over her foot where it was tucked under the blankets. "The Winter Solstice," he prodded.

It was as she met the King’s eyes that a sudden memory stole her breath. "Y-you… Your dragon. All of those females.Why?"

"It is tradition," the King merely responded. "You were Chosen."

"What does that mean?" Her voice bordered on a sob as she recalled the females standing around her; the white dress, the shattered skylight, and the King’s dragon sweeping down and staking a claim on her, being herded somewhere, the sharp point of a needle against her chest, mumbled voices, then… nothing.

She tugged the linen sheet down, seeing a simple nightgown on her body—who had changed her?—and a white bandage over her skin. "What have you done to me?"

Tharen spoke. "It is the Binding mark. I tattooed your commitment to uphold the Winter Solstice tradition as the King’s Chosen onto your skin." He looked to the King. "Your blood is connected now. It flows within the ink, and the ink’s magic flows within your veins."

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