Page 47 of The Pureblood Princess
“Theodore!” she cries.
A piercing pain snaps Nadia back to consciousness. She jolts awake, gasping, and it takes her a moment to gather her bearings and remember where she is. The nightmare feels as if it’s been burned into her mind: Honora’s sensual movements, Theodore’s skin glowing with perspiration as he lay before the blazing fire.
Just the thought of them together ties Nadia’s stomach into sickening knots.
She shifts, and fire burns through her hand, making her hiss. Turning, she finds her hand still impaled to the nightstand by Honora’s silver dagger. The pain is excruciating, and every tiny movement makes it worse. Her vision clouds with agony.
Tears well in her eyes, and she drops her head, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on her. But as she looks down at her left hand resting in her lap, her breath catches. Strangeblack shadows cling to her skin, darker than the room itself. As she blinks, they appear to writhe and pulse as if taking on a life of their own.
Fear clenches her heart, and she shakes her hand, trying to clear the shadow away. After a moment, the darkness disperses like cigar smoke blown into the cool air, and she’s left wondering if she imagined the inky blackness.
Heart racing with fright and pain, she looks to her other hand. Honora drove the dagger through it and into the nightstand, effectively pinning her in place. There’s no one here to help, no one to rip it out for her. She finds herself with two choices: sit here in unending agony, or rip the dagger out herself. Neither option is pleasant, but as she tries to shift upon the stone floor and the sharp-edged silver opens an even larger wound, she knows there’s truly only one choice.
Without allowing herself another moment to think, she draws in a deep breath and then yanks the dagger from her hand with a gut-wrenching cry. The silver clatters to the stone floor as blood spurts from the wound, staining her nightgown in a macabre display of crimson.
Clutching her sliced hand to her chest, she collapses back against the side of the tiny bed. The room spins, and her stomach contracts, causing her to lean to one side and heave. There’s nothing in her stomach, so the only thing that comes up is acid, but it burns all the same.
A small sob escapes Nadia’s throat, and she uses her good hand to wipe the moisture from her lips.
In her fragile state, she scarcely registers the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall outside. A deep fear twists her aching stomach as the lock on the door clicks, and she tries to school her expression into one of hate rather than terror.
The door opens, and a new visitor steps slowly into her prison cell.
Marek, the elder of the Kazamir brothers, wears a neutral expression, his blue eyes narrowed slightly, his dark brown hair cut short and his jaw clean-shaven. He looks at Nadia briefly, an unreadable emotion in his eyes, then moves aside. Two servants step into the room behind him, one bearing an armful of fabric, the other carrying a basket of medical supplies.
Saying nothing, Nadia remains where she is on the floor, her bleeding hand still held to her chest, her eyes following the servants as they move through the tiny space. One servant drapes the fabric—which Nadia can now see is a dress—over the back of the chair near the nightstand, and to her credit, her brow furrows when she sees the blood staining the worn wood.
The second servant hesitates before approaching Nadia slowly.
“I’ve brought bandages and antiseptic, miss,” she says, moving closer slowly, as if approaching an injured wild animal.
“Stay away from me,” Nadia whispers, her throat raw and scratchy from thirst and her painful screams.
The maid glances back at Marek, uncertainty in her eyes, and he juts his chin toward the door. Nodding, the servant sets the basket of supplies on the tiny bed, then curtsies to Marek before she and the other maid hurriedly leave the room.
The door slams closed behind them, and their footsteps retreat down the hall. They didn’t turn the lock, and just as Nadia perks up at this, Marek shifts to block the door.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says. His voice is deeper than she remembers, though not nearly so deep as Lord Kazamir’s.
With him standing there, tall and broad shouldered, she knows there’s no chance of escape. The hope deflates in her chest, and she slumps back against the bed once more, wincing at the excruciating pain in her wounded hand.
“Why are you here?” she asks quietly.
He shifts, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. “Honora told me what happened.”
The mention of his golden-haired sister has rage alighting within Nadia, and a low hiss escapes her lips. It makes her throat burn even more, and she begins to cough.
Marek steps forward, and Nadia narrows her eyes, watching him with a mix of distrust and curiosity. He stoops to retrieve the silver dagger. It’s stained with blood, and he removes a square of cloth from his overcoat and wipes the blade clean before placing both into an inside pocket. Now that the weapon is out of her reach, Nadia realizes she should have hidden it, and she feels a burst of anger at herself.
Marek crosses the room and reaches for the basket of medical supplies sitting upon the bed. His scent swirls through the cramped space, musky with an undertone of tobacco, and it makes Nadia’s heart pound harder.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he says, his gaze cutting to her and the bloody nightstand before shifting back to the supplies. “You should clean and banda—”
Nadia’s instincts take over. She lunges at Marek, fangs bared, forgetting her still-bleeding hand. Her actions are primal, instinctive, a desperate attempt to quench the relentless thirst clawing at her throat.
But Marek is prepared. He whirls, using her momentum against her and flipping her onto the bed. Full of rage and pain, she screams, thrashing wildly in his grip. Despite her feral intensity, he overpowers her easily, pinning her to the bed with a strength that leaves her helpless.
“Stop this.” His voice is measured, surprisingly calm. Narrowing his eyes, he looks down at her with a mix of... what? Pity? Sympathy?
