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He slides his mouth along my cheek, his breath hot and tingling on my skin, and I lean into him, even when he has made no move to touch me other than that mouth skimming my cheek.
“Myron—” His name comes out in a whisper as I brace myself for the onslaught of sensations that is the Crow King’s kiss.
I turn my head to meet his mouth, and he tenses, a groan rumbling in his throat that tunes out the rest of the room. I’m ready for this kiss. So, so ready, breathing ragged and heart racing.
But the kiss doesn’t come. Instead, Myron’s hand grasps my shoulder, tugging me behind him as he whirls to the side like a male on a mission, and it takes me a few heartbeats to notice the blood running down the side of his spine in a thick streak originating right at the edge of his feathers. The hilt of a knife is sticking out of his flesh, gleaming in the fairy lights.
“Fuck—” I see them a moment before they strike again, tall, winged forms of the sort that have haunted my nightmares. And these two are definitely not of the faction believing that the Crows need an actual king.
Thirty-Two
A scream lodgesin my throat as an invisible force rolls down the hall, Myron’s magic holding off whatever blow the Crows deliver with powers of their own. But the knife in his back struck deep, and he grunts under the strain of keeping up his shield. Horror flushes my system like a tidal wave. This isn’t the Flames trying to take back their palace. This is an attempt on Myron’s life—and they’ve already landed one hit.
“We need to get out of here,” I whisper, my hand hovering above the hilt of the knife protruding from the fluffy transition of feathers to skin as I debate whether dislodging the blade will help him or kill him faster.
“Youneed to get out of here,” he mutters so low I barely hear him as he turns his head just enough that I can see his profile.
“I’m not leaving without you,” I start to protest, but his magic wraps around my face, shutting my mouth before I can raise my voice and bring attention to myself.
“When I tell you to run, you will run, Ayna.” He hisses as he blocks yet another attack with that shield of his. “Find Royad. He’ll know what to do.”
I nod, gaze locked on the danger approaching from the mouth of the corridor ahead. The stairs to the residential level are behind me. I wouldn’t even need to cross in front of Myron. It would be easy.
Easy, except for the panic claiming me little by little at the thought of leaving Myron behind while he’s weakened. Not that I can do much to help him. I might actually be a bigger liability than an aid.
The realization hits me all over again, how useless I am, how incapable of saving the people I care for. That somewhere between hating the Crow King and kissing him, I’ve allowed myself to come to care for him.
If I run, I might make it up the stairs and to the hallway where I know Royad’s room to be situated, and if I’m lucky, the Crow male is home. He’ll come to save Myron when I can’t. Getting help is the best hope I have.
Myron sways on his feet as I place my palm between his shoulder blades in a reassuring touch.
“Be quick, Ayna. I don’t know how long I can hold them off.”
It is then that I see the black veins creeping across his skin from the edges of the wound.Poison.The knife is poisoned.
He doesn’t respond when I tell him I’ll race for both our lives, his focus back on the assassins, and I crouch, ready to sprint.
Every last muscle in Myron’s back tenses as he summons his magic for a strike, hurling it across the hall in a thundering blow. My ears ring from the sound, but Myron’s voice pierces through as he orders, “Now!” And I run. I run like I’ve never run before. Not on my escape through the Seeing Forest.
The stairs fly past under my boots, my steps not faltering on the slippery stone even when my entire body is shaking. The carvings in the wall are a blur, as are the columns and statues as I count them to stop losing myself to panic. Myron is fighting two assassins. Myron is injured. Myron wanted me out of the way because he doesn’t think he can win against the two Crows in his state. The location of the knife tells me a lung might have been punctured—in addition to whatever poison the assailants added.
My legs burn, my throat is made of sandpaper, my heart races. If I find Royad before the poison develops its full effect, we might save him. I have to make it.
It’s only when I knock on the plain wooden door at the end of the hallway that I realize I haven’t passed a single guard on my way up. I was too preoccupied with Myron’s lips on my skin, the anticipation of what might happen if our mouths connected to notice the hallways had been deserted.
Fuck.The faction against Myron planned this out well. Whatever they did to the guards—or were the guards even loyal? Did they desert their king the way so many other Crows have?
“Royad!” My lungs threaten to rip from my chest as I shout his name with all my strength, praying that their god Shaelak might have mercy.
There is only silence coming from Royad’s room. No hasty footsteps, no door opening to reveal a worried friend ready to use his sword. Nothing.
“Help!” I shout, turning and turning as I run from door to door, hammering with my fists until my bad wrist protests, but no one answers, and my stomach plummets.
There is no help to be found.
My hands wander to my daggers on instinct. If there is no one else around to help their king, I will.
I make it all but five steps toward the stairwell when an ear splitting crack runs through the hallway, and I stumble on the shaking ground. Guardians—whatever is going on down there, my blades are not going to cut it. My human strength and speed are not going to cut it.
