Page 110 of Of Rime and Ruin
I reach for his face.
But it’s not Aethan’s face, anymore. It’s the healer. Lucas. Dark, glinting eyes. Cocky smile. He labors over my wounds, forehead dotted with sweat, golden tendrils weaving in and out of my flesh like warm needles.
More pain.
I scream.
Somewhere, wood cracks. Splinters. Falls. The king is angry.
His emotions brush my conscience. I feel his pain, too.
Pain, everywhere.
I swallow my screams so he can’t hear them.
Then it’s done. Lucas wraps my torso in gauze, just in case, but the bleeding is over. Fresh pink scars stripe my ribs on both sides.
Right as the tides, as Deirdre tells me so chipperly. She helps me to my room and tucks me into bed. All fixed.
But he does not follow me. With each step I take, our connection weakens. Then severs.
The door closes. The lock turns from the outside.
And I am alone.
***
Escapeisimpossible.Ironbars block the window in my room, fashioned with gaps too small to squeeze my body through. I’ve tugged at every floorboard, every crack in the wall, and to no avail—there are no trap doors, no secret passages that might ferry me away from here.
It’s been two days since I’ve seen the king. Or seen anything but the interior of this embellished prison. Like it’smyfault.
Maybe it is.
Pain has a funny way of blotting out the details, right when it matters.
Once again, Perrin is my only company. Sort of. He guards my door with a stubborn scowl, trying hard not to break character, and relays gifts from the king—hot chocolate, wool slippers, a stack of romance books. Apologies passed from the king, but never the king himself.
Does Aethan regret what we did? The intimacy? The way our minds linked and synchronized, the shared climax of our pleasure…
I don’t.
It was the best moment of my fucking life. I frequently wake with my hand between my legs, trying and failing to relive that feeling. Because he’s never going to fuck me like that again.
Maybe he’s right. It is all my fault. I provoked him. Encouraged him. Wanted it so badly he finally caved to my dangerous request.
What a mad thing to do, trying to fuck a clawbeast. By all means, it makes sense to lock me up. I’m a danger to the king, and a danger to myself. So I stay in bed. I burrow beneath a mountain of furs and soft blue pillows and pray to all the gods who listen to absolve me of my embarrassment.
The king regrets me.
I feel it in my bones.
I hear it in the way Deirdre speaks to me when she brings my morning tea. The distance in her voice. The apologetic kindness in her eyes.
Day three of this shit.
“Sugar, Your Highness?” she asks. The porcelain lid clinks next to my ear. She’s standing beside my bed, her tray likely balanced on the end table.
I pull the covers higher overhead, retreating from the light of her candle. “No thank you, Deirdre.” The pillow muffles my voice.
