A plausible lie. A perfect manipulation. He is forcing me into an impossible choice: leave him to suffer and risk the wound festering, making him a more volatile and unpredictable prisoner, or… step into his cage. Step into his reach.
I stare at the torn flesh, at the sluggish trickle of dark blood. The healer in me, the part of my soul that hums with Purna magic, recoils at the sight of the needless injury. The queen in me assesses the tactical situation. The woman in me screams to run.
“Tarek,” I say, my voice tight. “Wait outside.”
“My Queen, I do not think?—”
“That is an order.” I unbuckle my dagger belt and hand it to him, the gesture costing me more than he will ever know. To be unarmed in his presence feels like being skinned alive. “Stay by the door. Do not enter unless I scream.”
Tarek’s jaw is tight, but he gives a curt nod and steps back, pulling the heavy door almost shut, leaving only a small crack.
I take a deep, steadying breath and force my trembling legs to move. I cross the threshold of the cell.
The moment I am inside, the psychic link explodes from a hum to a physical wave of energy. The air is suffocatingly thick with his presence, his scent—cold stone, winter air, and a clean, masculine scent that is uniquely his. It is the scent from my nightmares. My heart thrums against my ribs, each beat a frantic plea for escape.
I kneel beside him on the cold stone floor, refusing to meet his gaze. I focus on the wound. “This was foolish,” I bite out, my voice a low whisper.
I feel his eyes on me, a heavy, physical weight. He does not reply.
Steeling myself, I place my hands on his thigh, on either side of the gash. His skin is cool to the touch, like marble, but a deep, radiating heat lies just beneath the surface. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots up my arms. My body’s treacherous, unwanted reaction to his proximity. A wave of heat floods my cheeks, and I hate it. I hate him. I hate this weakness.
I force the feeling down and call on my magic. The soft, golden light pools in my palms, chasing the shadows from the corner of the cell. I pour the light, my energy, into his torn flesh. I can feel the muscle and sinew knitting back together under my hands, the skin sealing over. The intimacy of the act is a violationin itself. I am mending the body of the man who shattered my soul.
As I work, his voice comes, low and hypnotic, a soft rumble so close to my ear it cause the hair on my neck to stand on end.
“The specimen,” he says. “Does it display accelerated healing capabilities as well?”
The clinical question is a slap in the face. Ice floods my veins, chasing away the traitorous heat. I keep my eyes fixed on his leg, on the golden essence of my magic. “His name is Lyren.”
“A human designation. Irrelevant.” His voice is smooth as polished glass. “Has he shown any aptitude for flight? The development of the dorsal musculature would be the primary indicator.”
I finish the healing, the skin of his thigh now smooth and unmarred, save for a faint, silver scar. I snatch my hands back as if I have been burned. I stand up, putting distance between us, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
“He is a five-year-old boy,” I snarl, my voice shaking with fury. “He plays with wooden swords and chases frogs by the creek. He is not your science project.”
I turn and flee, not walk. I do not wait to hear a reply. I stumble out of the cell, back into the corridor. “Close it,” I gasp to Tarek.
The door slams shut, cutting off the suffocating pressure of his presence. I lean against the cold wall, my heart pounding, my body trembling. I hate him for forcing me into that cell. But what I hate more, what terrifies me to my very core, is that for a single, horrifying moment, as my hands were on his skin, a part of me did not want to pull away.
That night, sleep refuses to come. I lie in my bed, staring into the darkness, the psychic link a low, miserable thrum. But then, it changes. A new sensation bleeds across the bond. It is not thecold analysis I have grown accustomed to. It is not the possessive focus that unnerves me.
It is a sharp, clear, unmistakable pulse of pure, undiluted frustration.
And beneath it, vast and echoing and as cold as a starless sky, is a feeling of profound loneliness.
The unexpected intimacy of it, this glimpse into the monster’s soul, steals the breath from my lungs and leaves me more shaken than I have ever been.
12
EOIN
The dampening magic in this cell is flawed. It is a crude copy of Aethel design, powerful but unstable. I have observed a faint, rhythmic flicker in its energy field, a momentary weakness that aligns with the pulse of the fortress’s central warding stone. It is a vulnerability. And a vulnerability is an invitation.
My objective is not escape. A true escape, at this juncture, would be premature. The sedative, though weakening, still lingers in my blood, and the full strength of this fortress’s defenses has not yet been revealed. No, my objective is information. I wish to observe their response to a crisis, to catalogue their formations, to measure their reaction time. Most of all, I wish to observeher. I need to know if the ruthless efficiency she displayed in my capture was a singular act of desperation or a true measure of her character.
I remain in my state of practiced stillness, my breathing slow and even, and I wait.
The flicker comes, as I knew it would. A barely perceptible dip in the oppressive, green-tinged energy that leeches my strength. In that instant, I channel a focused surge of my innatepower—a sharp, violent pulse—not into the magical cuff, but into the central link of the iron chain securing my right arm.
