Chapter 38 Mav
MAV
They dragged me from her. I fought like a feral madman: teeth bared, elbows slamming into ribs, feet kicking for purchase. I didn’t care that there were six of them. All I knew was that I had to get back to her. Quinn’s pleading voice carried to the landing.
And then I heard it.
A sharp impact.
A sound I’ll never forget.
A crack, a gasp, and then—nothing.
Panic surged through my bloodstream. “Quinn!” I bellowed.
I nearly writhed free. One of the guards lost his grip on my arm. I slammed my shoulder into the stone wall, using the momentum to pivot, to lunge back toward her chambers, but the others pulled me tighter.
That’s when it hit.
The tether jerked inside me, sinew stretched to the breaking point.
My chest compressed with unbearable pressure.
I’d felt the bond between us pull before, but never like this.
My vision blurred. I feared I might pass out or vomit.
“Let me go,” I growled, but my voice came out cracked and useless. “Let me go, please—”
The pressure grew worse. A hot line of agony lanced from my chest down my spine.
Quinn was panicking. I could feel her anger, fear, and helplessness.
Snap.
A bowstring rending. I had never experienced this level of pain.
It was as if my very soul had been torn in half.
A scream clawed from my throat. My knees slammed on the floor.
I curled forward. I’d been stabbed before.
Burned. Broken bones. But this? This was worse, as if every nerve in my body had been lit on fire and plunged into ice at the same time.
I clutched my chest with shaking hands, trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. I reached for her with everything in me, and found…nothing.
The tether was…
Gone.
Terror seized around my lungs.
Had Edric killed her?
The guards hauled me up by my arms, forcing me down the stairs.
I whispered a prayer to the Saints I hadn’t believed in since I was ten.
I didn’t even know who I was praying to.
Maybe to her. Please, Quinn. Be alive. Be hurt, be angry, be afraid—but be alive.
Even if I wouldn’t be soon, I needed her to live.
Unconsciousness bit at my heels. I stumbled, legs leaden, but the guards held me upright. I reached for the tether again; a fool pressing on a phantom limb. But there was only barren silence where there had once been connection and warmth.
The guards stopped at a dead end. One of them pressed his hand to the wall. With a grinding screech, the bricks parted to the side in neat stacks, revealing a stairwell.
Sealing the dungeon with Tremor magic? Clever. Only a few people would be able to open it.
The stairs opened into a wider space lined with barred cells.
I ducked to avoid scraping my head on the ceiling.
Rats skittered to corners the torchlight couldn’t reach.
Every breath burned my throat as the scents of mildew and blood invaded my lungs.
It was dark, dank, and altogether miserable.
A place designed to break people, with the added convenience of holding them.
The guards brought me to a halt. They yanked my head backward. I sucked a breath through my teeth, grimacing as my scalp protested.
A knife hissed.
Hair sliced.
Not much—a lock.
Alarm jolted through me.
“What are you—” I twisted, but their grip on my arms tightened.
The guards wrapped the strands in a handkerchief. A chill somersaulted down my spine. Why would they need hair?
A guard wrenched open a rusted cell door and threw me in. Pain flared in my skull as it connected with the stone floor. Blood coated my tongue and teeth in iron.
“You awful brutes!” someone shouted. “You don’t deserve your mothers, you scum-sucking limp-membered cretins!”
That voice.
“Thistle…?” I croaked, head swimming.
Two sets of hands reached for me. One bracing under my back, another pulling my arm over a broad shoulder.
“How are you here?” I asked.
Branrir shrugged. “We were all arrested thirty minutes ago with no explanation.”
My molars throbbed as I grit them together. That conniving bastard. They helped me to the cell’s only furnishing—a half-rotted wooden bench.
“Careful,” Branrir cautioned as they eased me down.
“Saints, you look worse than a man mauled by a wyrm.” Thistle brushed the hair from my forehead and frowned at the blood.
Vesper leaned against the cell bars, green eyes glowing. “I’ve seen better corpses.”
“How are you conscious?” Branrir asked, lowering beside me. “The tether must be…it must be killing you.”
My heart wrenched. Saying it aloud made it real.
“I can’t feel her,” I whispered, voice raw.
Branrir stilled.
Thistle blinked several times. “What do you mean?”
I looked up at the only two people in the world who would understand—who had seen the bond between Quinn and me.
“They…” My throat closed. “They cut the tether. Or…” The thought fractured me. “Or they killed her.”
The cell fell silent.
“I’ve reached for her again and again. There’s nothing there.” A sob clawed its way up my throat. “Nothing!”
Thistle’s face fell. She sat beside me, rubbing slow, firm circles into my back. “The king wouldn’t kill her,” she said, voice hoarse. “He needs her to break his own curse.”
“He also needs his pride intact,” I choked out.
Branrir sat back on his heels, shaking his head. “We don’t know anything for certain.”
“She’s alone or dead, and we’re locked up!” I spat.
Even though Quinn had only come into my life twelve days ago, there was no point existing in a world without her—in a world where I’d utterly failed her. I doubled over, burying my face in my hands. And for the first time in a long, long time, I wept.
Thistle wrapped her arms around me and pulled my head to her shoulder. Vesper curled up against my leg, in the most affectionate gesture I’d ever seen from the beast. Branrir sat on the bench to my other side.
“You’re not alone in this,” Thistle whispered.
For a moment, I remembered what it felt like to be tethered.
Not to magic. But to people. The world was falling to ruin, yet gratitude swelled in my chest that a washed-up knight—who had squandered every chance, believing himself unworthy of anything good—was still capable of loving and being loved.
I wept until the grief bled out of me. “Quinn has to be alive.”
“She is.” Thistle turned to me. “You felt the tether snap, but you didn't feel her die.”
I lifted my gaze, eyes burning.
“There’s a difference,” Thistle continued, “I’ve seen death. I’ve held dying men in my arms. I know what that feels like.”
“She’s stronger than you think,” Branrir murmured.
“And way too stubborn to let Edric win,” Vesper added.
Branrir stood, walking in circles. “What the seven hells happened up there, Mav? What set this off?”
Wiping my sleeve under my nose, I tried to catch my breath. “She agreed to leave with me.”
“She what?” Branrir paused mid-step.
Vesper looked up with similar bewilderment.
“She chose me,” I said, the words staggering even now. “She didn’t want to marry him.” I gave a mirthless laugh. “We were going to run tonight.”
“You think the king knew?” Thistle’s hand tightened around mine.
“He saw enough to know we were more than just tethered.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “He stormed in with a bunch of guards. I fought, but they tore me from her.”
Thistle's lower lip trembled as her eyes dropped to the floor.
“What did they tell you?” I asked the others.
Branrir grunted. “Said we were being put in holding. Too much ‘royal interference’ or some such nonsense.”
“They said the same to Vesper and me,” Thistle said. “Though I imagine you were the interference.”
My lips twitched upward. “I’m a walking interference.”
A short, dry chuckle sounded from Vesper. “That might be the most honest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
I scrubbed both hands down my face, fingers trembling. “He hit her. I heard it,” I said, anger pumping hot through my veins. “He struck her, or had someone do it. And I—” My voice cracked.
Striking any woman was unforgivable. But striking her?
Quinn, who fixed everyone’s hurts with soft hands and stubborn kindness.
The woman who marveled at every small thing as if the Saints were creating miracles for her alone.
The Twilight who eased her wounded horse into a gentle sleep.
Striking a soul such as hers was an offense to everything good and decent in this world.
Vesper sighed. “You’re assuming he hit her out of rage.”
My brows drew together.
“For men like Edric, it’s not about punishment,” he continued, green eyes fixed on the cell bars.
Thistle stiffened. “What are you saying?”
“He wants to be remembered as the one she chose. Even if he has to carve that memory into her himself.” Vesper’s mouth twisted, shifting his whiskers. “He’s not angry, he’s desperate—and trust me, that’s worse. A man who’s angry wants blood. A man who’s desperate wants control.”
Control over Quinn.
Control over the future.
Edric didn’t care about her and certainly had no intention of earning her love. The king wanted her magic at his disposal and needed her to bear heirs. And I’d lost the chance to save her from all of it.
“This is my fault,” I croaked. “If I hadn’t let myself believe we were safe for one damn second—”
“Mav.” Branrir cut me off. “There’s no way you could’ve seen this coming. Blaming yourself won’t help her now.”
“I don’t care about blame,” I growled. “I care about what that bastard might’ve done to her after I was dragged away.
He struck her in front of a room full of guards.
There’s no telling what he’d do behind closed doors.
” Fury burned under my skin. “If he hurt her, if he violated—” I stood, ready to combust. My jaw locked shut.
“I’ll kill him,” I vowed. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands.
I’ll flay the skin off his limbs. I’ll break every bone. He will beg for death.”
No one made an effort to calm me. Based on the anger in their expressions, I was certain they’d be enthusiastic accomplices.
Thistle rose beside me. “We’ll find a way to stop this,” she said. “But first we have to survive the night.”
Stillness was impossible.
Ten steps, turn.
Ten steps turn.
Every time I stopped moving, memories flashed—Quinn’s screaming, the echo of a blow, the unbearable silence after the tether snapped.
“We have to do something,” I insisted.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Vesper drawled from his spot by the door, “we’re in a dungeon. The bars are too close for even me to slip through.”
I ignored his sarcasm and kept pacing.
Branrir sat on the bench, deflating with a sigh. “What’s your plan?”
“I want to crash the wedding.”
After a beat of silence, Branrir barked a laugh. “You can't be serious.”
“He always is,” Thistle added.
“Saints, he really is,” Vesper said, turning now with a conspiratorial grin.
“I’m not letting her marry that bastard,” I said. “There has to be a way.”
“A way to what?” Branrir challenged. “Break out of a fortified dungeon, sneak into a royal wedding, and whisk the bride away?”
“Yes,” I snapped.
Branrir held up his hands. “Didn’t say I was against it. Just wanted to clarify your lunacy.”
“I can work with lunacy,” Thistle said. She stood, brushing off her hands. “But not tonight. You’re half-dead and barely standing. If we’re going to pull off anything tomorrow, we need to rest.”
“Rest?” I echoed. “How can you expect me to sleep?”
“Because we’ll need you functioning to make a plan,” she said, matter-of-factly. “The wedding’s not until sunset. Breaking out any earlier only hurts our chances of succeeding.”
I halted.
Sunset.
The final line I couldn’t let Edric cross.
Thistle settled back against the wall. “Lie down, Mav, for a little while. She’ll need you at your best tomorrow.”
I nodded, although sleep felt impossible.
Branrir slid his spectacled gaze to me, expression hardening. “There’s something else.”
Vesper’s ears folded flat. “Is this a pep talk, history lesson, or doom and gloom?”
“Mav,” Branrir said, voice quiet. “Quinn is almost out of time.”
“Doom and gloom, then,” Vesper snarked.
Branrir’s words hit like a bucket of ice water.
“I. Am. Aware.” I bit out each syllable.
“I don’t think you are.” His face locked into stern lines.
“As much as none of us want her to marry that prick, if she does, Edric said both their curses will end. If we pull her out before the vows…we still haven’t figured out another way to break the spell.
We only have two days until she falls asleep for another century. You have to stop pretending—”
“I’m not pretending!” I shouted. “I’m refusing to accept that the king is her only way out.”
“And which way is that? Because if it’s true love, it’s time to be honest with yourself.”
I froze.
He pressed on. “We know you love her. But to break the spell, Quinn has to love you back.” Branrir pinned me with his gaze.
“Can you say—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that she loves you? If there’s still a question, it would be selfish to ruin her only chance at a life because of your unrequited feelings. ”
I’d prefer if he’d just kicked me in the gut. It would’ve caused less pain. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. Doubt strangled my breaking heart. I didn’t know whether or not Quinn loved me.
“So, I’m supposed to let Edric force her into a marriage she doesn’t want?”
Branrir grit his teeth. “It should be her choice. If Quinn doesn’t love you, she can marry Edric and be free.”
I threw my arms wide. “That is not freedom!”
“Quinn is the only one who can decide that!” Branrir shouted, poking me in the chest. “If we do this, it’s to give her the option of choosing you, not for you to be some kind of hero. And if she doesn’t, we walk away. Agreed?”
My chest heaved. I bit my lip, fighting the retort on my tongue. Branrir was right. Too many choices had been taken away from Quinn. I wouldn’t take this one from her.
“Agreed,” I mumbled.
Branrir crossed the cell, dropped onto the straw, and closed his eyes. The stone floor didn’t look any more comfortable than before, but it was solid. And right now, I needed something to anchor me. I lowered myself to the floor, closed my eyes, and tried not to see her face behind my eyelids.
We would break out of the dungeons tomorrow.
We’d crash a royal wedding.
And, if Quinn chose me, we’d run far away from the mad king who thought he had any right to own her.