Page 103 of Destined Dawn
“Back to the republic,” Azlan says with a steely determination.
“Are you insane?” Stone asks. “The Lord Protector wants us dead.”
“I told you already. We have to go back,” I tell him.
“I don’t give a shit about the prophecy. We don’t have to do anything but keep you safe,” Stone says.
“Ellie?” Azlan says.
“Winnie,” I add.
The steel in Stone’s expression wavers. “We aren’tstrong enough.”
“Then who is?” Azlan snaps.
“We are,” I say, addressing Stone. “You know we are.”
“Didn’t you see little rabbit take out her daddio – a fucking vampire!” Renzo says.
No more running, no more hiding. No, I’ve had enough of that. There are too many people depending on me. Too many people I care about. Time to meet my destiny. Time to meet it head on. There’s only one place to go.
“Arrow Hart,” I say, “we’re going back to Arrow Hart.”
Immediately, Gwenhwyfar lifts her body, catching the warmth of an air current in her wings and expelling us out of the palace compound, out of the city and eastwards.
I spin around and peer past Renzo, straining my eyes to scan the already lightening horizon and catch the city we’re leaving for one last time. Like the people, it takes on a more sinister form now I look at it with better-informed eyes. Not so stylish and sleek and modern. Oppressive, soulless and bleak.
I couldn’t live in a place like that. I’d miss the chaos, the realness, the honesty of home.
I bet all those things he showed us were a lie. Every single one.
I go to turn back and catch sight of Renzo properly, seated behind me on the dragon, his hands tight around my waist, Pip snuggled between us. Blood trickles from a congealing wound on the assassin’s neck and his ear is hanging from his head in two halves. I jolt in shock and shift my body so I’m facing him better.
“Let me heal that for you,” I say, raising my hand.
He catches my wrist.
“Nah,” he says.
“It’ll scar.”
“Another one to add to my collection.” He winks at me.
“But your ear!”
He lifts his hand and touches it, feeling the two pieces.
“Shit,” he says, and his eyes spin in their sockets. The assassin may love pain and gore and things I try my best not to think about, but he doesn’t seem to love this …
“Can I heal it for you, please?” I say.
“You’re not touching my ear,” he hisses.
I look at it. The scars are one thing – but this, this needs sorting. I try a different tactic.
“I thought you liked me touching you,” I say, trailing my fingertips down his chest.
He looks at me with obvious suspicion. “I do, just not the ears.”
