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Her breathing stopped as the air whooshed past her ears. As her vision distorted, one thing was abundantly clear: Graeson hadn’t once tried to attack her.
Chapter57
GRAESON
Graeson sprinted forwardand drove his shoulder into the door.
The door shook.
Not enough,he growled.
He threw himself at the door again.
And again.
And again.
The side of his ribcage burned, yet he continued ramming his body into the door.
Wasn’t it enough that Kalisandre was fighting him? Didn’t he already have more than enough to deal with? Did he really need to be fighting with himself on top of that?
Despite the god’s desire for Kalisandre, the god did not take well to someone fighting back. Each time Kalisandre came at him, it took everything Graeson had to fight against the god’s control, to force his body to dodge instead of bite back.
The hinges on the metal cage were bending, weakening.
What are you doing?the god shouted at him.
What I should have done days ago,Graeson said as he sprinted forward one final time.
* * *
Graeson fell to his knees,catching Kalisandre in his arms before she hit the ground. Everything came rushing over him as if he had come up for air after having been submerged underwater for a dangerous amount of time. All the emotions he had blocked out came crashing into him in a torrent.
Kalisandre lay in his arms, the mark of Terin’s ability softening her expression as she fell into a deep sleep. Graeson’s hand hovered over the red scratches that marked her skin. Pieces of glass protruded out of her skin. Her dress was torn, covered in freckles of blood. He brushed her hair back from her face, cradling her head. The makeup around her neck had rubbed off, making the bruises more prominent. As he stared at the discolored skin, warmth spread across his hand. His brows furrowed, and he shifted. He peeled his hand away from her head, and his breath caught in his throat as he stared at the blood covering his shaking palm.
When Sylvia had dropped the smoke bombs from the roof, Kalisandre had been knocked down onto the ground. She must have landed on something and nicked her head. At least Graeson hoped it was only a knick. Since Terin had knocked Kalisandre unconscious, Graeson couldn’t be sure.
He snatched the ripped fabric from her dress and tied it around her head. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now. He brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen in front of Kalisandre’s face, and her features softened. Or maybe he imagined it.
Guilt coated the inside of his stomach. He hated that they had to do it this way, that they had to kidnap her against her will yet again to save her. But there was no other way to free her from Domitius’ hold.
All Kalisandre wanted was a choice, but how was Graeson supposed to leave her here when Domitius was manipulating her? Kalisandre’s choice had been stripped away from her years ago. None of the decisions Kalisandre had thought she made in the name of justice had been wholly hers, for Domitius had been pulling the strings all along. He had shaped her, morphed her, manipulated her into something she wasn’t until she became completely unrecognizable.
When Kalisandre woke up, she would hate Graeson, but it was a price he was willing to pay to free her mind and give her back her agency.
The bullheaded king couldn’t even take his supposed daughter with him when he disappeared as the ceiling shattered. Domitius had vanished and abandoned her. He didn’t care about her. He only cared about what he stood to gain.
It was clear that the man knew when he was losing the battle. And if he wanted to win the war, Domitius had to run. So he did.
He was not a bull but a cockroach, doing whatever he could to survive.
Terin’s hand fell on Graeson’s shoulder and squeezed. “Graeson, we need to find Armen and Moris and get out of here. I saw Dani and the others followed after Domitius.”
Graeson nodded and picked up Kalisandre, scanning the room as he stood. Chaos continued to rain around him. The flames rose higher, dividing the dais from the rest of the crowd. Sylvia had gotten carried away. He should have listened to their warning that the smoke, once alive, was bound to get out of their control. Sylvia had crafted some device, a bomb of sorts. When the smoke seeped through the doors, those sitting in the pew had released the bombs Sylvia had given them.
They hadn’t accounted for the torches, though. And once the chemicals in the bombs interacted with the flames of the torches, the air became thick, the fire wild.
The god had known the risk when he saw the torches ignite, but the god had too much faith in his ability. He knew he would get out alive. But the people? To the god, they were a needed sacrifice. Graeson, however, would not sacrifice his own people.
