I sigh.
“Wonder how your brother feels about you thieving his keys and breaking his prisoners free?”
“I’m not breaking you out, so don’t get your hopes up.”
I snort-laugh. “Charming.”
He kicks the door open, stepping into my foul-smelling chamber. “And my brother has eyes in only one direction,” he mumbles, crouching before me, encasing me in the robust medley of his warm scent. A lush comfort in this harsh place, which I ignore the pleasure of, choosing to breathe through my mouth.
“Well, feel free to tell him I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to kill him before I died. I was really looking forward to it.”
“I have no doubt,” he says, producing another key from his pocket that he uses to unbolt the bar connecting my two chains, placing it on the ground beside me. He fails to unshackle my wrists or ankles, meaning he’s got … plans for me.
Plans I want nothing to do with.
He stands, towering above me, blocking the light spilling from my lantern. “Up.”
“Die in a ditch. Or better yet, a coliseum—getting feasted on by a flock of Moltenmaws. I’ll meet you there.”
Asshole.
I sponge a little satisfaction from his rumbling sigh.
Even if I wanted to stand, I’m not sure I could. I may have put on a show at the trial, but my entire body feels like a frayed seam.
It hurts to breathe. To blink. It hurts to tap my tapping foot. There’s something surging through my veins that’s making me nauseous and cold.
I usually like the cold, but this is different. This cold feels wrong—wedging into my marrow like it’s masticating me from the inside out to make space for itself.
“Now is not the time to be stubborn, Moonbeam.”
“Wrong. There’s only one thing males see in a shackled female,” I seethe, my words laced with enough venom to stop a heart. “If you want that, you can take it right here so my cellmates can see what a monster you are.”
A low rumble boils in his chest, making my skin pebble. “I’m not that sort of monster, Prisoner Seventy-Three. I would not take pleasure from you were it not given freely. Now, stand on your own or suffer the embarrassment of being picked up and carried.”
His words wedge between my ribs and stab me where it hurts: my withering pride, the remnants of which I’m determined to take to my impending grave, tied to the stake he sentenced me to die upon.
“Your choice,” he growls. “Make it.”
“I did make a choice. You took it from me.”
“Because it was the wrong one.” He reaches out as if to grip me around the shoulders—
A snarl rips up my throat, and I snap my teeth at his fingers. “I’m doing it.”
“Then do it.”
“Not until you turn around.”
Another rumbling sigh before he spins, giving me the privacy I need to suffer through what’s going to be a monumental task I’m not sure I have the capabilities to achieve. Right now, the ground is my friend. Unless I’m standing—then it’s my enemy.
At least with his back turned, he won’t see me crumble.
“Any progress?”
“Mentally strangling you as we speak,” I mutter, setting my hands on the ground to my left. I pinch my trembling lips together and shove all my weight into my palms, rolling into a wobbly crouch.
The pin in my shoulder grinds against bone, bolts of pain shooting through my arm …
Shit.
I squeeze my eyes shut, snap them open, and shove up, rocking to my feet. Warmth dribbles down my back as I sway. As my surroundings split, converge … split, converge …
“You’re not going to fall, are you?”
I lift my chin, steady my spine. Stare at the back of his head while lit with a blaze of retribution. “Course not. I’ve never been more sturdy in my life.”
“Good,” he says, then stalks from the cell with a dash of his white robe, condemning me to follow with a curt “This way.”
I’m led through a tangle of corridors to a quiet tunnel with a single door at the end, nerves popping beneath my skin as the Incognito King pulls the door open and gestures for me to pass.
To enter ahead of him.
“You first,” I rasp with a steadying hand against the wall, not believing a word he said about not being that sort of monster.
He’s a Vaegor. A tyrant. Tyrants lie to themselves as much as they lie to others.
I know what happens in this prison. I’ve heard enough stories to wither my guts for eternity. If he’s going to have his way with me, I refuse to walk into that room blind. I’d rather force him to look me in the eye as he ruins another part of me. Make him feel every fracture.
Every bruise.
He stands still for a long, hard moment, then flops back his hood and moves into the room, not stopping until he reaches the other side. He turns and leans against the wall, crosses his arms, and waits like a stone statue carved by the Creators themselves. Strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, muscular neck. Every angle hacked with such precision he’s almost painful to look at.
Frowning, I shuffle forward, easing into the room lit by a jar of captured moonlight set on one of the many shelves lining all four walls.
Impressive. Those are pretty hard to come by.
I note the tall mender’s pallet and padded chair beside it, my gaze whipping to the female standing in the corner, her hair a crop of brown curls that match her eyes and skin but contrast with the floor-length Runi robe she’s garbed in.
She gives me a soft smile that does nothing to stop my heart from plummeting.
I don’t bother taking in the buttons pinning together the front seam of her robe—the ones that symbolize her strengths. I already know what I’ll see.
She can fleshthread.
“This better be a threesome,” I grind out.
“I’m not one to share,” the King says, his voice low and steady. “But if that’s what you really want, it can be arranged once your back is healed.”
He obviously thinks he’s hilarious, but I’m not laughing, my pulse a violent churn I can’t seem to slow.
The Runi takes a step toward me, her face still warmed by a comforting smile. “Greetings, Prisoner Seventy-Three. I’m Bhea. Why don’t you let me help you remove your tunic so I can take a look at your ba—”
“There’s no point healing me,” I growl, cutting a glare at the King. “It would be a wasteful misuse of this female’s skill and energy.”
“Bhea has been well compensated for her service and is more than happy to help.”
“Does she know I’m destined for the coliseum?” His lips tug into a tight line, so I stab my stare at Bhea instead. “Do you?”
“I do,” she whispers.
“Then why bother?”
“Because you’re in pain,” the King announces, like that’s an answer at all.
“Pain that’ll stop once I’m fed to the dragons!”
“Please.” Bhea steals another step forward. “We don’t have much time if I’m to do my best work.”
My foot slides back.
She stills, and though the King doesn’t shift from his spot against the wall, something locks into place in the void between us. As though physical strings knot around my ribs, stretch across the room, and tether to his, making it impossible for me to draw a single breath without him noticing.
My skin nettles, and I become primitively aware that he’s waiting for me to run.
That he will chase.
He tips his head, as if in silent appraisal of my tumultuous inner monologue, which just pisses me off. I’m bluntly aware that in my current state I’d make it two steps before he’d be upon me, dragging me back to this very position, waiting for me to concede.
Dammit.
“You will leave your weald at the door.”
“I have three, Moonbeam.”
“The one with the dragonflame, Sire.”
A line forms between his brows, gone the next moment as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his weald, tossing it through the air—a perfect throw that plummets into my outstretched hand.
I lob it down the hall, hearing it clatter across the stone.
This is such bullshit.