Page 2 of Ironling
Jerrod jerked up to stare at her wide-eyed, the lens left to bore into the paper. Within a moment, flames erupted from the pages.
Aislinn sprung up and raced across the study.
Jerrod yelped, smacking into the device. It went clattering to the floor, glass shattering.
Aislinn threw a spare blanket over the burning book, beating at it with her hands until the small flame was snuffed. Her hands smarted from the heat, and smoke filled her study.
Tears streaming down her flushed face, Aislinn turned on Jerrod. He gaped at her with his blue-gray eyes. Their mother’s eyes.
They’d always looked wrong in his face. Too gentle, too warm, when Jerrod was neither.
“Sorry,” he said.
He didn’t mean it.
He never meant it.
Frustration boiled inside her, overwhelming and consuming. She burned hotter than the fire he’d almost set, her temper snapping.
Aislinn shoved him.
He stumbled backward, tears springing to his eyes, and yelped.
She filled her fists with his tunic and shook him, her rage poured out of her in tears and screams. She didn’t know what she said—it didn’t really matter.
How dare he come into her space, her refuge? How dare he ruin her device?
He always ruined everything.
I hate him! I hate him I hate him Ihatehimhatehimhate—
“Aislinn!”
She was yanked away from Jerrod, who was left sniveling in the corner. Aislinn clawed at the body trying to restrain her, kicking and yelping like a caught animal.
The air fled her lungs, and Aislinn screamed silently, thrashing to be free.
The someone holding her boxed her ears, stunning her.
Panting, Aislinn looked up into Brenna’s horrified face.
“Stop this at once!” The chatelain delivered another smack to Aislinn’s face, not hard enough to hurt but enough to snap Aislinn’s attention back into the study, away from her anger.
She held very still, not wanting to be slapped again.
Brenna waited a long moment before hurrying over to help Jerrod. She cooed and clucked over him, helping him stand.
Aislinn drew her arms around herself as she began to shake.
What have I done? What have I done?
Her stomach roiled with every pulsing ache in her palms from hitting Jerrod, and she balled her trembling hands into fists.
Aislinn detested violence. She never watched the knights at tourneys or in the practice field. She always hurried away when Jerrod tried to brawl with his friends, and she never laughed when jesters struck each other for cheap comedy.
How could I do this?
“What have you done?” Brenna demanded, cradling Jerrod to her.
