Page 99 of Bride of Ash & Dust

“That’s one,” Syvan says. “How many marks do you think I can make, snake, before you finally die?”

Chapter 54

Lilias

THE PRINCE OF VSENROG

“Stop,” I cry.

Both men freeze. Syvan has his back to me. I try not to stare at Zarek, at the cut running down his neck or the blood on his lips or, gods, the mess of his face.

No. I focus on the tip of my blade as the prince of Vsenrog turns around to face me.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Fear, maybe? Or perhaps, after an entire life as a princess, I was expecting obedience.

But Prince Syvan laughs when he sees me. He laughs, Zarek stares at me with ragged desperation in his one eye that isn’t swollen shut, and fear wrestles with rage for control of my mind and body.

“Oh, fuck,” Syvan finally spits. “This is gold. This is really fucking rich.”

He steps toward me. I step back, keeping my knife pointed at his eyes.

“Look at you,” Syvan sneers. “So tough, are we, fat little princess? Did you steal that knife from your slimy bastard of a husband? Or did you fuck one of my men to get it?”

Rage wins.

“Let him go, you asshole,” I scream.

And I lunge forward, my knife aimed at the base of his throat.

Syvan moves like smoke. One minute, he’s in front of me. The next, he’s twisting to the side, then behind me. I stagger as Syvan’s arm closes around my neck, pressing my back against his chest.

“Whore,” Syvan says.

His breath is hot against my skin. I gasp, but the breath can’t reach my lungs.

“I’m going to fuck you hard,” he growls. “While your husband watches.”

Zarek screams like he’s in pain. Petrys’s calm voice whispers through my mind, and the hours we spent in that little meadow come rushing back to me. Petrys’s arm around my throat, his chest at my back. Twist, he whispered, don’t pull.

“I think the whore might even like it,” Syvan says in a rough growl.

Use your opponent’s weight against them, Petrys said. They’ll expect you to panic. Don’t.

My pulse thunders through my skull. Panic howls like a wild beast, and I fight it down, even as my lungs scream for breath.

I won’t panic. I won’t.

I close my eyes and twist my hips. Syvan’s arm tightens around my neck as I shove my fists against his chest, throwing my weight into him, just like Petrys taught me during our practice sessions.

Syvan grunts as my hands slam into him. His arm falls away from my neck. I gasp, finally filling my screaming lungs, then twist, pulling away from him. But my hand is stuck.

My hand. The knife.

Everything suddenly feels very slow and very clear. My eyes trace the path of my arm. To my hand. To the hilt of the knife my husband strapped around my thigh in some other time, some other life. I forgot it was in my hand.

The hilt of that knife is now sticking out of Syvan’s chest.

The prince of Vsenrog makes a strange noise, like bubbles through mud. Blood seeps out of the corners of his mouth, and some insane part of me wonders if maybe he’s been eating fresh meat, because there has to be some explanation. That can’t be the blood of the prince of Vsenrog.