Page 55 of The Jasad Crown

I checked my palm. The gold vein hadn’t disappeared, but its glow had dimmed. I dug deep for my magic, scraping every corner and crevice, and came up empty-handed.

Was I here… without my magic?

On the table to our right, a dozen silver tools lay scattered haphazardly among the blood-soaked bandages. Expensive tools, tools a healer would have taken with them when they left.

Had he tried to fix himself?

A horrified laugh punched out of my throat. “You tombs-damned fool.”

Arin’s back snapped straight, each muscle pulling taut. He didn’t turn around.

Not a reassuring sign. Really, it was a sign shriekingDanger! Danger!

“Al Anqa’a could have killed you. Is that how you wanted to go? Sliced-up bird dinner?”

The bandages wrapped around his torso and side came into view, and I inhaled sharply. The damage from Al Anqa’a’s claws hadn’t appeared nearly so dire in the Visionists’ illusion.

Arin was hurt. Badly.

A line of blood had dried from his hairline to the bolt of his jaw, but the rest of his wound dressings were clean. Why hadn’t he wiped this bit of blood away?

My hands curled into fists in my tunic. If my magic was here, now would be the moment to whisk me away. Now, before the dust settled over my crumbling resistance or my reaching hand—

—touched the back of his bare shoulder.

It happened instantly. My skin had barely grazed his when aniron grip caught my wrist. The room flew as I was flipped backward and slammed against the wall, my traitorous hand pinned above my head.

Arin loomed over me, inches away, murder ripening on his lovely features.

“Hello to you, too.” I grinned. I wasn’t one to prod hungry lions, but damn if my asinine instincts hadn’t convinced themselves that this one wouldn’t bite me.

The hold on my wrist tightened. I huffed. “Yes, you’re very intimidating. Let me go.”

I yanked, trying to dislodge him, but even injured and bleeding, Arin was Arin. I’d have a better chance pushing past a wall. “You are being unreasonable.”

Nothing.

I took a deep breath. Before the kindling of my irritation could blaze into anger, I caught sight of his wardrobe, its carved wooden doors thrown open. The chaos distracted me from the Heir glowering a breath away from my face.

The mess on the table was a symptom of his injuries, but the wardrobe? The skewed drawers on his bureau? The three empty cups on his nightstand?

I met his eyes, brows pinching in concern as I studied him. Arin would sooner let rats gnaw on his fingers than show even a hint of weakness, but the condition of his room spoke louder than his implacable features.

In the wardrobe, Arin’s clothes were organized in neat, symmetrical rows. Only one item stuck out, its shoddy craftsmanship a far cry from the tailored sleeves and intricate hems of its neighbors. Surrounded by Arin’s immaculate clothing, a moth-eaten, threadbare old cloak had been carefully hung in the back.

My chest swelled to a point of pain.

Though I was the one pinned to the wall, I suddenly felt asthough I had cheated. I had seen what was not meant for me, stolen an advantage in our game.

“Let me go,” I said hoarsely. “Let me go, and I’ll leave. I swear it.”

He flipped me around at dizzying speed, twisting my arm behind my back. Instead of pressing my face to the wall, Arin pushed us a step toward the door.

“Are you trying toarrestme?” Appalled, I couldn’t help a laugh. “Arin, we both know my body is miles away.”

Again, nothing. Arguing with Arin when he had closed himself off was a waste of time. He would respond to only one language.

My unrestrained arm shot backward, driving my elbow into Arin’s stomach.

---