Page 161 of Thorn Season
He grabbed my cloak, wrenching me back. I raised the knife a second before he slammed me against the wall.
The air burst out of me. I was blind, my head ringing.
My sight returned in swimming pieces: the pale flash of Erik’s eyes, the glint of the blade, the glow from the kitchens. His body crushed me, keeping me upright. His fist wrapped mine so tightly around the knife handle that the latticed grooves dug into my palm.
I panicked, trying to twist free. But Erik’s grip was unrelenting as he guided the blade to my throat.
“Enough,” he said, quiet but firm. The cool steel pressed my skin. Not to cut me, I knew, but to keep me still. To keep me from fighting anymore.
I should have aimed lower. I should have run faster.
I should have never left Vereen.
I must have been crying because Erik tutted, his breath hot on my face. “Don’t give me those eyes,” he scolded. “This was your doing.”
I tried to squirm away again, but he shifted with me, hissing in discomfort. I looked down and saw his feet bleeding. He’d removed his boots after the tar as I’d anticipated and stepped right into the broken glass.
Still, it hadn’t been enough. Because, inch by inch, with unbroken strength, Erik prized my fingers off the knife. I resisted at first, my knuckles clicking under his hold. Then all at once, my grip slackened. The knife clanged to the stones.
My knees folded.
Erik caught me as I fell, my skirts creating a tent around us. He pulled me into his lap, and I yelped as he gathered my tender wrists in one hand. Then he slid his other hand into my pocket and retrieved the compass.
That quickly, it was over. This had all been for nothing.
My first night in the cell, I’d decided not to beg. So, I hated myself now, more than I’d ever hated anyone, as I looked the king in the eyes and whispered, “Please.”
Erik sighed. He tucked my head under his chin and began stroking my hair. I was shivering all over.
“You’re the last person I ever wanted to hurt.” His voice vibratedagainst me. “I hope you know that.”
“Please,” I said again. The word hitched on my sob.
Erik just cradled me closer, shushing me as I wept.
I didn’t know how long I remained enfolded in his arms, my tears soaking his jacket. How long my specter heaved in great waves under my skin, each smack crashing out into another sob.
But in the cold whimpering aftermath... the last weight of dullroot glided off my power. My specter stilled inside me with the sensation of bated breath.
Slowly, I unfurled a tendril.
It trembled in the open air, straining against a strange, internal grip. Strange, because the poison had run dry; Iknewit had. So I couldn’t understand why, as my power dragged itself toward the fallen knife gleaming in my periphery, Erik had worried about the dullroot wearing off.
My specter was too weak. This tendril could barely cling around the latticed ridges, let alone lift the weapon.
I sagged from the attempt.
“All cried out, my love?” Erik cupped the back of my head and gently angled my face for his assessment. He caught my last tear with the pad of his thumb and brushed it against my cheek.
Then he released my wrists. With his eyes still on me, he would see if I reached for the knife.
He curved his arms under my knees and around my back, ready to carry me away. He would put me back in manacles. He would flood me with dullroot again.
This was my last chance.
As his muscles tensed to lift me, I directed that strand of my specter toward my pocket. Toward my mother’s coin. My specter buckledunder the little weight, but I lifted the coin as high as I could endure. Then I did what I’d always done.
I set it twirling.
