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As honed as a dagger. As priceless as silk.
Usually that timbre was suave, smooth, and sensual. Not tonight. On this eventide, it shook the rafters. In a flash of movement, too swift to be human, the source of that male tone manifested inches from me.
Powerful hands caught my body before I collapsed. The scents of amber and vetiver swept into my nostrils. Strong arms banded around my waist, preventing me from falling, a sense of safety dulling some of the agony.
“Get him out of here!” that voice commanded to a group of female silhouettes, one of whom snatched a tiny, squirming shape off the floor. As the woman raced from the hall with the little figure—the wailing child—more shadows dashed in and out of my vision.
The world spun as my feet left the ground. Those strong arms scooped me up and clutched me against a wall of muscle. I levitated for a moment, then slumped into that solid chest, its rampant heartbeat pounding against my cheek.
My arms and legs flopped like useless things. Briefly, irritation eclipsed pain. I did not care for being useless; damnation, I could walk!
But when I twisted to break free, fire lashed through my limbs. I shuddered, inhaling whiffs of his skin, his clothes, and his panting breath. All at once, the jester’s grip on me alleviated my qualms.
Safe. With him, I was safe.
But it hurt. It hurt so badly.
My head dropped onto his chest, and suddenly we were moving, bolting across the room. Doors whipped open. He moved like a hurricane, tearing through anything and anyone that got in our path. Shouts pursued us, along with a dozen footfalls.
“Briar,” he repeated, the word slippery on his tongue, laced with panic. “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you. Stay with me, Sweet Thorn.”
With him grasping me so tightly, where else would I go? Where else would I care to be?
Nowhere. Never.
My savior charged ahead for what felt like miles. At once, the walls shrank, flooding us in darkness.
Despite his pleas, the jester held me as if I’d evaporate in his arms. Scared that he might be right, I dug my nails into his shoulders. Yet my energy waned, the flames engulfing me and mixing with the aftertaste of blood.
Blood as red as scarlet. The color was as rich as something else that escaped my memory. A vague object that nonetheless mattered dearly to me.
Something precious.
***
At last, the flames died. Heat drained from my body.
But as it did, another sensation took over, freezing me to the bone. Sudden chills gripped my joints, leaching warmth from all the places that had once scorched my skin, the frost penetrating me from brow to foot.
Where I was hot before, my body now shook for a new reason. My flesh stung as if encapsulated in a block of ice.
Cold. Everything was so cold.
***
Visions floated before me like dust motes. Red ribbons encircling my wrists. Wheat swaying in the breeze. Crowns tumbling from the ledge of a castle and smashing into a million gold pieces. The branch of an oak tree. Rose thorns on fire but never wilting.
At one point, I flailed. Desperate to reach those images and touch them, to catch them before they disappeared, I thrashed against a mountain of blankets.
Fingers snagged my arms, gently but firmly. They tried to steady my movements, tried to compose me.
With a grunt, I whipped my arm into the air. Whoever it was, my palm cracked against their face with a loud thwack. Then my eyes rolled back, darkness swallowing me in its maw.
***
As I twisted and turned, images shifted, crystallizing a little more. Fingers strumming a lute. Hands tucking quilts beneath my chin. The platinum gray of Father’s eyes and the rusty red tresses of my Mother.
Her voice filtered in, congested with unshed tears. “I’m here, my dear.” Soft hands combed through my hair. “I’m here.”
