Prongs?
What do they need fine-tipped prongs fo—
Oh.
I pull the towel from my face, catching the King’s stare again. “You’re removing the pin?”
Makes sense. Wouldn’t want any hatchlings choking to death on it if I’m carted west and spat out in a Moltenmaw’s tinder nest.
“You wear iron cuffs,” he murmurs, his gaze dragging over every angle of my face—like he’s mapping out the shape of it—landing on my eyes again. “The pin is unnecessary.”
“Well, yeah. But I’m unnecessary, remember? Skin slabs … Rekk Zharos’s finger … I don’t think you appreciate quite how close you came to being hacked into bits, then tossed off the wall. But hey, thanks for mending me before I die, even though it makes no sense.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Hacked into bits, you say?”
Obviously.
“You’re the biggest male I’ve ever seen.” I shrug, biting down on a wince because that pin absolutely hurts. It’s blatant now that my skin’s no longer slashed to ribbons. “There’s no way I could’ve dragged you to the edge after I slit your throat.”
“But you didn’t …”
I frown, wishing he wouldn’t stuff my indiscretions in my face like that.
He smelled good.
I fucked up.
Let’s not dwell on it.
“The prongs aren’t here,” Bhea says, and that small smile instantly falls off the King’s face as he pushes to a stand.
“I have some in my saddlepack, but it’ll take me a while to get there and back,” he announces, striding toward the window covered by a round of aged, half-rotten wood. “How are we on ti—”
“Give me a blade.” I wave my hand in the air, jingling my chains. “I’ll cut it out.”
The King abruptly stops, and both he and Bhea glare at me like I just asked them to pretty please bare their throats so I can slice them open.
I roll my eyes.
“I won’t stab you. White flag, remember? I won’t give it back, either, so don’t give me one you’re particularly attached to.”
The only thing worse than losing a good blade is losing all your good blades, dammit.
The tips of my fingers tingle with the urge to gouge them through Rekk Zharos’s throat and rip out his trachea with my bare hands. Now that I’m mended, the injustice is extra crippling. I’m more than well enough to hunt him if it weren’t for these fucking chains.
“I can put a salve on it,” Bhea suggests, turning her attention to the King—like I’m not even here.
“That’s a terrible idea,” I gripe, reinserting myself back into the conversation. “I have a pin in my shoulder.”
Now that we’re all talking about it, I’m growing more and more pissed that I’m going to die with this thing in me, and I think it’s only fair that I snatch my comforts wherever I can find them, thank you very much.
I lean back from the chair, spinning so I can see the King properly. “You have a blade, no doubt. Hand it to me,” I say, flopping my hand out for him to fill. “Any blade. I’m not picky. Let me root around for a bit. You can close your eyes if you’re squeamish.”
He clears his throat, not for one moment dropping his gaze to my naked breasts now on full display while he turns and grabs the wooden window covering. Sliding it sideways, he peers out, muttering a curse beneath his breath. “Does the salve have rindleroot in it?”
To numb pain?
Interesting.
He wants to ease my suffering as I’m hailed into death. And there I was ordering a handsaw to make disassembling him easier.
“It does,” Bhea responds, digging her hand into a large leather bag she has stretched open on the worktable. She pulls a jar free like it’s some sort of trophy, and I frown at the lumpy green paste inside. “And fermented eahl eggs.”
To disinfect. But most importantly—to make you smell like you’ve been shat on.
No, thank you.
“You know what?” I say, trying to wrangle my shirt back on. “Fuck it, I’m good. Doesn’t even hurt. Let the hatchlings choke.”
“Do it.” The King slides the window cover back into place, snipping off the extra spill of light. “We don’t have time to cut out the pin,” he says, nailing me with a stare that shoots straight through me and out the other side. “The aurora’s about to rise.”
My heart plummets so fast I almost vomit.