I stretch my arm across my chest, then the other. The fine scabs that had begun to form on some of my wounds reopen with the motion, warm blood slicking down my torso and dripping onto the sand.
“I’m not in the mood to hold back,” I rumble, spinning.
Grihm’s jacket is on the ground by his boots, head dipped as he loosens the strings on his black tunic before pulling it over his head, exposing his back, his pale flesh a puckered mess. Like it melted, got stirred up, then abruptly solidified.
He begins to turn, and I look away.
“Neither am I,” he grates out, and it’s a battle to keep my face stony. To contain my shock at the sound of his voice—its coarse texture a tribute to how little he uses it.
He stalks toward me, looking at me from behind the flop of snowy strands half concealing his face, broad shoulders flexing as he fists his hands at his sides.
“Good,” I growl, then charge.
We collide in a clash of white-knuckled blows that break more than they build, our blood spraying the sand as we exert the menace from our systems in the only way either of us understands.
Fists to flesh.
Snarl to bloodlusting snarl.
Rage to fucking rage.
Agni closes the wooden shutters, blocking out most of the light while I drape Elluin atop the large pallet in one of the many guest suites, placing her lax hands upon her chest. Pausing, I take in the ravaged skin down the sides of her nails, my brows pinching together.
Interesting …
Either a bad habit or she’s lusting over the thought of having someone’s blood on her hands.
Wonder which it is?
I pull the silk sheet up to her chin, sweeping a tendril of freshly brushed hair from her now-healed brow. Not even a trace of a scar she would’ve forever worn like a fucked-up version of the diadem she once bore.
“You did well,” I tell Agni, who dips her head in thanks, pausing by the end of the bed. Gaze caught on Elluin, she chews her bottom lip, fingers knotting—like she’s deliberating. “Something the matter?”
“Yes.” She looks at me, slowly filling her lungs. “There’s something I didn’t want to bring up in front of the males. Mostly because they seemed … on edge. Didn’t want to add fuel to the flames, so to speak.”
So she’s telling the one who threw herself across the table and punched the King three times before she was manhandled into submission?
Nice.
I mold myself into a vision of poised composure and say, “Go ahead.”
Her cheeks flush. “The patient’s, ahh … As you know, the gift of Dragonsight runs thick in my family line. So once the blood was cleansed from her skin, I could see the layered stain of many runes. Many, many runes.”
I frown, looking at Elluin. “Recent?”
“It’s hard to tell.” Agni makes her way around the pallet, peeling back the sheets. “But she has one wound that doesn’t appear to have been mended by runes. It glows a shade of silver I’ve never seen before. Right … here,” she says, placing her hand directly over Elluin’s heart.
My blood chills.
“A killing wound,” she continues. “Not one folk survive, since healing a stab to the heart takes more time than the patient usually has.”
All the heat drains from my face.
Creators …
I swallow the thickening lump in my throat, rubbing my hands down my cheeks, threading my fingers through my hair. “Don’t tell the King. Not until we know why … or how.”
Agni’s face blanches, stare flicking to the door at my back, to me again. She drops into a swift curtsy, clears her throat, then turns her attention back on Raeve.
Frowning, I look toward the door, moving out into the hallway just in time to see a shirtless Pyrok disappear around the corner at the far end.
I sigh.
Charging forward, I spill into the sitting room and cut my gaze across the cluster of colk leather seaters curled around a low stone table that’s seen more games of Skripi than there are stars in the southern sky.
Pyrok’s sprawled across a large seater, his long, disheveled hair the same blazing hue as the flame dancing between his fingers. “Don’t tell the King, huh?” he says, condemning me from beneath raised brows.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, stalking toward the opposite seater and dumping myself on it. “He’s so fucking happy to have her back he’s not asking nearly enough questions. Besides, you don’t slaughter your enemies with a blunt blade. You sharpen it until it’s so honed you’re certain it’ll do the job.”