Not Pyrok.
The realization should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
Knowing the way of the world, he probably did nothing to deserve this horrific fate, unlike the male I just dropped into the water.
The prisoner wrestles his binds, and our gazes clash. He squints, screwing his whole face into the motion, like he’s trying to make me out.
His eyes go so wide I’m sure they’re about to pop loose, and he releases a muffled scream. Something that sounds a lot likeGO!
Utris grabs my arm. Drags me toward the tunnel while my mind continues tochurn. We’re halfway up the stairs before the distant sound of a bell rattles me to the core.
I groan.
Firsthand rescues haven’t worked well for me in the past. I’m much more comfortable with the solitary role of a professional blood-shedder. But—
Fuck it.
I kick the back of Utris’s leg, right behind his kneecap. He plummets backward, bellowing, though I’m swift to buffer his weight, banding my arm around his neck and squeezing.
Hard.
He wrestles, but I’m already braced against the walls, restricting the flow of blood to his brain. “Sorry about this, but I know you’re probably under strict instructions from the king not to let me die.”
He bucks with newfound ferocity, heaving from side to side in stiff, jerky motions. All but confirming my suspicions.
I sigh.
Meddling male.
“When you wake, you’ll find a lark in your pocket with the location of your gold,” I say against his ear, arms and legs straining with the might to keep him locked in place.
His movements grow weaker. Less frenzied.
“Find that love of your life and take her to Dhomm.Live, Utris.”
His eyes roll back, body going limp.
I loosen my grip, tuck the half-folded lark in his pocket, then power down the stairs, exploding onto the cove just as another, less distant bell chimes. “Fuck,” I mutter, the male in the boat now screaming louder than he was before, his eyes so flooded with panic it’s almost catching.
“GO—GO—GO—GO!”
“Not if you want to survive!”I whisper-hiss, about to rip off my ring when I see asecondboat slicing through the water one determined row at a time—heavy with two folk.
A messy blaze of red hair lures my attention to the familiar male sitting in the vessel’s nose, brows pinched with determination, green eyes firmly set on the prisoner.
Realization flays me.
They’re related.
“Creators …”
My gaze shifts to the white-robed individual with his back to me, breath catching as I take in broad shoulders and the confident way they move, working the oars in fierce, powerful pulls.
My entire body becomes cold and still. Like a Moonplume that just soared into the big dark and curled up to die.
No.
