Page 83 of Bride of Ash & Dust

He laughs, low and in the back of his throat.

“Give me your hands,” he says.

I hold out my wrists, and he wraps them with rope. It’s rough against my skin; in a few hours, I’ll probably be bleeding. Panic beats against the inside of my chest. I force it down and hold my head high as he leads me through the tent flaps.

There are five horses saddled outside the tent. One of them, a gray gelding, is tied to the saddle of a large, black stallion. As I expect, the servant leads me to the gray gelding. I raise my eyebrow at the massive man who tied my wrists.

“Listen, lady,” he says. “This can go a couple of ways. You cooperate with us, it’ll go easier for you. You fight, and it’s gonna be a whole lot harder.”

I risk a glance at the larger tent behind us as my heart flutters against my rib cage. Where is Zarek?

The servant follows my gaze, then laughs again.

“He ain’t coming to rescue you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he growls. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust a snake?”

The rest of the men laugh. They’re not even trying to be quiet, I realize. No, they’re as loud as a group of revelers on a feast day.

I could scream at the top of my lungs, and no one in these mountains would give a damn.

Suddenly, I’m remembering my wedding night, after puking over the side of the bed as the room spun around me. I’m going to go get drunk, Zarek said. And last night, in the mayor’s villa in Detec, he reeled across the bedroom and passed out in the bed before I could even speak.

Something inside of me breaks. I almost hear it shatter as I climb into the saddle. The massive man beside me, the man who was never a servant in the first place, ties my ankles to the stirrups and my wrists to the pommel.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until he ties a cloth over my eyes.

Chapter 46

Zarek

DISTRACT ME FROM WHAT?

Someone is laughing. It’s cold, wherever I am, and it smells like burnt meat, stale wine, and unwashed bodies. My wrists burn, my arms ache, and my skull feels like someone’s taken a hammer to my temples. I open my eyes slowly, then slam them shut as the room pulses and sways around me. Gods, I’m going to be sick.

I grit my teeth as the back of my throat turns bitter, then wait for the feeling to pass. The next time I open my eyes, the room around me stays put.

No, it’s not a room. It’s a tent, a barracks for an army. The table where I sat down last night is still here, but now the canvas wall glows golden with the light of the rising sun. Voices drift through the walls.

Panic stabs me in the chest. I yank on my arms, but they don’t move. My wrists burn.

I’m tied to a chair, with my hands bound behind me. I glance down; at least I’m still wearing my clothes. I should still have some of my daggers. I twist my wrists, feeling the rope bite into my skin. If I can just get free⁠—

Someone snorts loudly, just behind me. I freeze.

“Good morning, snake,” Syvan drawls.

Someone chuckles at that. Someone off to my right, just out of my range of vision. Boots thud against the floorboards as Syvan walks in front of me. He pulls up a chair, then sits down and crosses his arms over his chest.

“That should have knocked you out for at least a day,” he says, almost conversationally. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve got the drug tolerance of a bull.”

I glare at him. He smiles at me, and a horrible question bubbles up inside my chest.

“Where is my wife?” I growl.

Syvan examines his fingernails. “Your wife is not my concern.”

I yank on the ropes around my wrists. The chair rocks under me.

“You son of a bitch,” I spit. “Your father is going to have your useless head for this.”