Page 47 of Her Soul for a Crown
“Raja?” Courtiers narrowed in, curiosity and worry lining their faces. Calu waved them off.
“Call for the healer!” Bithul’s voice rang through the palace hall. He lumbered toward the raja’s chamber, a limp raejina consort in his arms. Blood left a macabre trail behind them.
“Mighty Heavens,” Calu cursed.
The courtiers flapped and flittered. Reeri’s soul tugged forward, the tether calling. Pushing off the statue, he ran swiftly after Anula.
The bed was soaked, the blessed gifts cooing over the wounded raejina consort.
“Avenge her!” the raja shouted at Reeri.
“Comfort her!” the raejina scolded.
Yet all Reeri could do was stare. Covered in darkest red, he could not see where sari ended and blood began. His mouth dried. He had not meant for this. She was only to learn the consequence, feel the first bite of pain and return. What had been so important she withstood…all this?
“I don’t know what happened, my raja,” Bithul said, hands flailing, legs shaking, cane forgotten elsewhere. “One moment she was arguing with the board of ministers; the next she collapsed. I didn’t see an attacker, let alone an attack, but suddenly there was blood and her skin—”
“It is not your fault.” Reeri shoved away the questions. Anula required healing. And for that, he must touch her.
Not grasp or hold or pull away, as he had in the painting.
This required time.
“Guard the door, Bithul. Let no one in.” Reeri’s hands flexed, his heart beat swiftly, and he was nearly certain it had nothing to do with the tether.
“What about the—”
“No one,” Reeri repeated, palms hovering over Anula’s wretched arms. They were shredded, as if a jungle cat had clawed her. Fissures ran from shoulders to fingers, festering and darkening with death.
“Then I shall pray.”
As the doors closed, Reeri’s stomach fluttered. He eyed the sapphires she might grab upon waking under his touch. Yet if he did nothing, she would surely die. Taking a breath, he lowered his hand, pressing into the soft give of her wounds, her flesh like pulped mango. A warmth sparked beneath his fingers, seeping from him to her.
Anula breathed sharply, chest rising high and slowly back down as the seconds turned to minutes. Each inhale knitted her skin together—first the smooth bronzed tones, then the dark mehendhi marking—polishing her long arms and her delicate fingers. Color returned to her cheeks, and her breathing evened. A peace washed through him as the Heavens’ healing returned her to life.
He stared at her bee-stung lips. He could have for hours, but a sudden flash of faces and thoughts swept through his mind—the crown two lengths too far for her to grasp, frowning ministers looming overhead, a list of names, of deaths, the need to avenge—
Anula jolted. “Thrice-cursed Yakkas, what was that?”
Reeri’s hands flew off her. “I had no choice. You were dying.”
“It flayed me!” she screamed, checking herself. “It tore off my skin!”
“Consequences,” Reeri said, shifting. “I told you, when you venture too far away, the tether will try to snap you back. It demands proximity. Even if it can only have one piece of you at a time.”
Her gaze was riotous. “You were in my head.”
So she had seen that, too. “I did not mean to be. I only meant to heal you. If you had been conscious, I would have asked permission.”
“To see inside my head?”
“No.” A flush warmed his neck. “To…touch you.”
“Cursed Yakkas.” She rubbed at her arms, looked away. “What have I done to deserve this punishment?”
Reeri’s brows gathered. “Bithul said you were arguing with the board. What argument was so important you chose to endure this?”
The flash of ministers came to mind.
