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I stare at it, warring with my decision. Really, there’s no choice. I doubt I could escape if I tried.
“Just a cut. I’ll make it quick.”
Katiya appears at his side, a bundle of something in her hands. At my look, she says, “To heal the wound.”
“I thought you didn’t like mistreatment of humans,” I say to her brother.
He frowns. “I don’t.”
Even so, he flexes his fingers, beckoning me.
Reluctantly, I stretch out my arm. He grabs it with his calloused hand and positions it just so, palm out toward him. I grit my teeth and pinch my eyes closed, prepared for the worse.
I cry out as the blade slides the sensitive skin of my palm. It’s the worst fire, blinding and sharp. I try to jerk away, but he holds me firm, pressing my wounded hand against the flat of the cold blade. I snap my eyes open and stare in horror at the sight, my blood sliding down the metal and some dripping onto the dirt below us.
Just a cut, my butt. He didn’t take the whole hand, but sweet baby Jesus, it hurts like heck.
Whenever he decides he has enough, he pulls my hand away and lets it go. Katiya is there, wrapping something around my hand that almost instantly cools the burning pain—thank goodness.
Her brother stares at the bloody blade as if waiting for something to happen. After a moment he orders, “Take her to the cell.”
“A cell!” I snap. Not that anyone listens.
“See that she has food, water, blankets. Anything she needs.” Then he turns his back and stalks away.
Katiya finishes wrapping a cloth around the wound, sealing in whatever tonic she’s applied and stopping the drip of my blood everywhere.
“Come with me,” she says, albeit somewhat gently.
“What happens to me now?” I can’t help but ask as she leads me away toward another narrow pathway.
“Whatever my brother decides.”
He’s not even looking at me. I might as well not even exist anymore. If he leaves me to rot in this horrible place, I’ll never forgive myself for leaving Sigurd’s bed.
Chapter 39
Thisisanightmare.A prison so much worse than the bond I worked so hard to free myself of.
I’m not sure how much time has passed since Katiya led me into this cell and locked the door. I fell asleep at some point in a heap of blankets on the floor. Exhaustion—physical and emotional—had finally won out.
Light doesn’t reach me here, if it reaches the land of the Unseelie at all. At some point while I slept, a tray of food and water were left in my cell, though I haven’t been able to muster much of an appetite for the strange-looking brown fare. The food is as unappealing as the rest of this place.
I’ve always thought of cells as damp and musty places, but this one is dry and hard, the walls made of solid stone other than the rough metal bars running from floor to ceiling on one narrow side. A few of them make up the door, but it’s locked.
My thoughts are even more turbulent than the night before, and being trapped alone with them might be the worst punishment of all. Over and over again, I see Sigurd racing into battle, Moria at his side, an army at their backs. But their foe is monstrous, the battle ferocious, and the result…
I shudder, shutting down the dark vision.
I’m not sure which taunting outcome in my head is worse: Sigurd thinking I left of my own accord and following the trail Katiya left to the Court of the Forest, sparking war there. Or him somehow figuring out what happened and attacking the Unseelie.
Though there’s another part of me that wonders if neither thing happened. Maybe he thought I left as planned and has done nothing. Maybe he truly doesn’t know I was taken. Or if he does, maybe it’s not worth risking a war. Heck, he wouldn’t consider canceling the games to let me drink and reverse our bond at the risk of making his people unhappy. So many times, I accused him of being petty, holding a grudge, and risking his court foolishly. Maybe he finally listened and has decided I’m not worth the trouble despite the night we shared.
He never claimed to love you, the rational part of my mind taunts me.
Nor did I share the true depth of my feelings for him.
I pull up the hem of my shirt to gaze at the edge of his mark—our mark—where it climbs up my skin above my pants. I trace my fingers along it for the hundredth time, confirming it’s still there. Maybe it’s proof that Sigurd lives. I hope it is.
