Page 53 of On Brutal Thrones

I stare at him.

Then at Fenric.

Then Talon.

They’re breathing. All three of them are here. The realization hits me so hard that whatever was holding me together finally gives way.

I shove myself out from beneath the roots, unfolding cramped legs and ducking beneath the low opening before awkwardly stepping around Talon. The moment I’m clear, I throw myself at Thorian.

His good arm closes around me immediately, and I bury my face against him and breathe. Blood. Sweat. Dirt. Beneath all of it, I catch the familiar oakmoss scent that belongs to him, and my eyes sting.

He’s here.

He’s still Thorian.

And Fenric and Talon are alive.

I hold him tighter, suddenly unable to stop thinking about how close I came to losing them. Just this morning, the four of us were talking about a future together. We were laughing. They were kneeling in front of me with a ring they'd made while I slept.

Then the Trials tried to tear us apart. Again.

I knew I cared about these men. I knew I loved them. But standing here with Thorian’s heartbeat beneath my cheek and the other two unconscious at our feet, I understand how deep that love has gone.

Losing any one of them would destroy me. The realization should probably frighten me. Instead, it makes me furious.

I want us out of here. I want mornings when the greatest danger we face is Fenric attempting to cook breakfast. I want Talon making inappropriate comments and Thorian pretending not to find them funny. I want to wake up without wondering which god is going to try to kill someone I love before nightfall.

I want the future we talked about.

And that future feels less like a foolish dream and more like a life I’m willing to fight for.

Eventually, I force myself to loosen my hold on Thorian. He does the same reluctantly, his hand lingering against my back for another second before falling away.

Only then do I get a good look at him.

A deep gash runs down the side of his face and cuts through one eyebrow, the blood already beginning to dry against his skin. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he keeps his injured arm tucked close to his body. Every time he shifts it, pain tightens his expression.

“You’re hurt.”

“So are you.”

I glance at my arm, almost surprised to remember the gash there.

Thorian follows my gaze, and his expression darkens.

“I’m okay,” I tell him quickly.

His eyes lift to mine. He clearly doesn’t believe me, but now isn’t the time to argue.

“Come on,” he says, his voice low and rough with exhaustion. “We have to get Talon farther from the tainted blood.”

My gaze drops to the vampire.

Seeing him unconscious should frighten me after what just happened, but instead my chest aches. His face is slack now, all that terrible hunger gone. He looks like Talon again.

Or at least I hope he will be when he opens his eyes.

Thorian first grabs his sword and resheaths it, then bends and hauls Talon over his shoulder, grunting as the movement pulls at his injured arm. Talon is completely limp, his blond hair hanging down Thorian’s back.