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Even if he’s not a man of battles, Ajaia is still strong. He grips my hand once more, twisting my arm behind my back. I open my mouth, but my throat is so dry, only a croak comes out. He pulls me by my hair and bashes my head on the metal table. My vision blurs and darkens, tears mixing with blood from my split brow. Between my spinning head and the bile rising in my throat, I just have enough strength to focus on breathing.
I feel his hands tear the fabric of my kaftan and slither up my skin. I hear the emerald buttons ricochet from the walls and roll on the wooden planks of the floor.
I want to kick him. I want to fight.
Instead, a muffled sob escapes my lips.
Evanae save me.
Before he can reach for my skin, his grip lessens and the world sways around me.
With a yelp, Ajaia flies across the compartment, hits his head on the table, and lands in a crumpled mess on the floor. Another stagger of the train, and the back of his head hits the wall with a crunch, blood trickling down the collar of his shirt.
The tremor in my body has nothing on the shaking of the car, its wheels struggling to stay on the rails with an ear-splitting screech. We come to a halt with a rumble of cars, and I hit the table with my chest. Pain clutches my lungs. Bile rises to my lips. Each breath is a battle. I rush to the bathroom, empty my stomach over the sink and wipe my mouth with what is left of the sleeve of my kaftan. With my hands still shaking, I force as many buttons to clasp as I can, but too many emeralds lie scattered on the floor.
I’m still fighting to catch a healthy gulp of air as the door to my apartment slides open. I press against the wall when a man steps into my compartment.
“Nel,” calls a warm voice while its owner is still looking over his shoulder into the corridor.
Emeralds crunch under his boots, and Bonar finally looks down. A frown knots his brow. Slowly, his gaze finds Ajaia strewn on the floor. A moment later, he turns to me.
I must look nothing like the princess he has met only hours earlier, clutching the lapels of my kaftan, trying to cover as much of my body as I can with what little fabric is left.
He takes a step toward me, and I stumble away.
“I…” he swallows, “Nel, I won’t hurt you.”
His words ring clear as crystal, yet they float around detached from one another.
Another wave of nausea has me dashing to the sink again. Bonar steps toward me, and this time I have no place where to crawl and hide, not while I’m still retching and spitting. He pulls the hair away from my face and waits for me to be done.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter when the last of the nausea recedes.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Do you have something else to wear?”
“Probably. Somewhere in the trunks or—” A loud clank cuts me short. “What was that?”
Bonar leans into the corridor and looks both ways before opening the bag I haven’t noticed and pulling a shirt out of it. Before I can utter a word of protest, he wraps it around my shoulders and presses one of the sparkling white towels to my still bleeding brow.
“What is happening? Why have we stopped?” I ask, trying to occupy my thoughts with anything other than what I just lived through.
“We’re under attack.”
“From whom?”
Bonar looks at me, his eyes drifting to the back of the car and at me again. “I don’t have all the answers. The train isn’t supposed to stop, but it did. All the doors to the compartments locked. I broke out of mine and came to see if you were all right.”
“Tylea,” I whisper, stumbling toward the corridor.
My knees shake. I know I won’t make it far into the car, but before I can even reach the door, Bonar catches my arm. A shiver runs up my skin. A wince breaks on my face. The desire to stomp on his foot and hit him in the face overwhelms my every other sense.
Bonar lets go. “Nazar has broken out of his suite too and went in search of her.”
A groan at our feet interrupts our conversation, and Ajaia stirs.
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
Bonar hits him hard on the temple, and Ajaia’s head rolls on his shoulders, lulling him back to sleep. Pulling a rope from what seems to be a bag with endless supplies, he wraps it swiftly around his wrists. Ajaia’s hands turn blue, and I chide myself for hoping they fall off.
