I swallowed hard. “Well, I am.”
My eyes moved over him—bruises, cuts, dried blood. My stomach flipped.
“What did she do to you?”
He gave a rough breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Nothing I can’t handle, temptress.”
I didn’t believe that for a second.
I ground my jaw and leaned close, letting my forehead brush his for the briefest second. Then I let the magic free. The chains around him groaned as ice crept along the metal, cracking and weakening it.
But then I looked past him.
Ronan still hadn’t moved.
A jolt of panic burst through me, and I didn't care how much power I had left—I was getting them out.
“Xarothar, tell me he’s alive.”
“Barely. You need to move. Now.”
I turned back to Kieran. “I’m getting you both out of here.”
He gave me a low, dry chuckle—hoarse and ragged. “Knew there was a reason I tolerated you.”
My throat tightened. “Yeah? Try not to bleed out before I prove you right.”
The chains groaned under pressure. I braced myself, ready to tear them all apart, ready to destroy whatever dared stand between me and the people I loved. No one was taking them from me.
With a snap, the chains finally gave way. Kieran fell forward, and I just caught him, our bodies falling to the floor. My knees slammed against the cold, blood-slicked stone, every impact biting, but I didn't let go.
“Can you sit up?” I shift just enough to brace him, my fingers digging deep into his arms. The blood smeared across me—his, mine, I couldn't tell anymore.
Kieran groaned softly, then nodded shakily. He rolled onto his side with a sharp inhale, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Get Ronan. She was extra hard on him.”
His words hit like a punch to the chest, but I didn’t let it break me. I pause just long enough to steady Kieran, then push my body forward, dragging myself across the floor toward Ronan. My knees sink into his blood as I reach him, hands tremblingwith tension. Slowly, carefully, I roll him onto his back, and I freeze.
A breath hitched violently in my throat, and a sob escaped.
Ronan’s beautiful face—usually so full of life and mischief—was nearly unrecognisable. Bruises darkened his cheekbones and jaw, swelling like bruised petals over torn, bloodied skin. Dried streaks crusted around his nose and chin, mixed with fresh, glistening crimson that still oozed. His lashes were matted and heavy, his eyes nearly swollen shut, and his lower lip split in two. Blood traced down his neck, a silent testament to the violence he’d survived, and my chest clenched tight, every inch of me aching for him.
So much blood.
There were prints on his throat. Finger-shaped bruises. Scratches. One of his arms was bent at a strange angle, his knuckles raw and broken. He’d thought back.
My hands shook as I carefully swept the blood and grime from his face. A ragged breath tore from my chest—part sob, part curse—rattling in my throat.
Please be alive.
I press my fingers gently to his neck, searching for a pulse, silently pleading it's there. One.. two.. Three.. And then—a faint, stubborn thump beneath my touch.
Oh, thank the stars.
Relief crashed through me, and hot tears streaked my face as I sucked in a ragged gasp, shaking as I traced his battered skin, clinging to the proof he was still alive. Still with me.
“Is he okay?” Kieran’s voice cut through the haze of my worry.
