Page 46 of Wings of Destruction

“Pretty girls are raped in the mines,” Evie continues with obvious glee. “If not by the other miners then by their guards.”

She snaps her teeth at the last word and her head drops backward in peals of laughter. I squint at her.

She’s worse, so much worse than Tristan. Seems like it’s a character defect that goes along with the hair color. Still, her laughter winds its way into my system and the blood boils in my veins, because she’s not wrong. Not by a mile.

I’ve heard stories even in the village of what happens to prisoners damned to the mines.

Brutalized, tormented, withheld at the brink of death without being allowed the bliss of expiration. There are worse things than burning, and I know it.

Evie knows it, too.

Her laughter continues in my head long after she makes her exit, leaving me in a puddle of musk and soap. Kieran, without a glance in my direction, trails her out.

The spiteful witch has made her point.

There are ways to tamp down the fire of rebellion that don’t involve physical torment. Why break bones when you can break souls so much more efficiently?

Ten

Kieran

Evie slides her hand along the inside of my wrist where my armor ends, finding the seam without failure. She bats her blue eyes wide without missing a step.

“What do you want to do now?” she purrs.

I want to shake her off, send her in the opposite direction, and turn tail to check on the girl. Morgan.

I tell myself it’s guilt that makes me want to check on her. Guilt over what Evie did, what I allowed to happen. But the twist in my chest when I think of her bloodied and broken—that’s something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

The servers whispered her name to me like a prayer I hadn’t been devout enough to earn. Morgan Whyte, the redheaded survivor of destroyed Fallkirk. The girl who should be wearing student robes instead of servant rags. The girl I helped put in chains.

Instead, I turn off the part of my brain tied to my empathy and leave her behind. I fix Evie with a smile and do what I always do when she asks the question.

I keep her at arm’s length.

Her behavior in the dragon aerie is expected. If I tell her off, if I lash out at her for the way she treats others, she’ll suspect me.

Keeping the nebulous vision of the greater picture in mind, I grin at her, watching color flush the apples of Evie’s cheeks.

“I have a few things in mind,” she says when I’m too quiet for her liking. “If you have a little bit of time, I’d love to show you how grateful I am for your good deeds.”

Her hand slips higher.

“Good deeds?”

“Fallkirk. Tristan told me how you handled things there. So thorough, so… decisive.”

My back stiffens. Who knows what my cousin told Evie about last week.

“Seems the hero deserves a little bit more fanfare than he’s been awarded. I’d be happy to show you how great warriors should be celebrated.”

Swallowing a groan, I take a step back, sliding my hands into my pockets. I’m saved from having to answer her by the arrival of a messenger.

Black livery keeps the servants professional and discreet. They’re unseen until they want to be.

This fellow with slicked back hair clears his throat before holding out a hand for me. “A letter for you, sir.”