Chapter Seven #2
Gray jerks his arms out of the guards’ hold, shooting them a sharp look after.
He steps forward and kneels before the king.
“I understand that a price is owed for what happened tonight. I understand you seek to teach your servant a lesson, but…I humbly request that you allow me to step in and receive the punishment in her place.”
My heart falls into my stomach while my eyes bulge, and my chest fills with weighted lead. I glance at Sterling and find the blood leaching from his face, though his features remain perfectly neutral.
The king arches a brow and chuckles, strangely amused. “And why would I do that?”
Gray pauses, and I suddenly become keenly aware of what he’s doing.
Gray Nightenjoy, son of the wielder of cunning words.
How they underestimate him.
Gray is the true wielder of cunning words—when he wants to be.
Most often, he is so true of heart that he chooses not to use his abilities because he doesn’t like manipulating others , in his words.
But that objection is cast aside as he turns his tongue silver.
I can feel it—alongside my own pain—in each measured movement he makes.
“Because I am asking you for the sake of my honor as both a man and a Nightenjoy. It was I, Your Majesty, who goaded Lyra into leaving. I who implied she had no responsibilities.”
The king rests his cheek on his fist. “You can take a man into the king’s coffers, but you cannot make the man steal his wealth.”
Gray bows his head lower. “All the same, Your Majesty. I fear I would feel less of a man if not granted this request. That is why I kneel before you, begging at your feet. Please…” He finally looks up and meets the king’s glowing gaze.
King Alastair loves to watch people beg.
“Please,” Gray repeats, emotion beginning to betray him, rattling his voice. “Allow me to take her place.” He steadies himself, clearing his throat. “For the sake of my honor, and to preserve the integrity of my bloodline’s virtue.”
The king watches Gray for a long moment, and as he does, my heart is an erratic flutter of broken wings.
The king sucks in a loud breath. “Very well. I cannot deny a man on his knees, begging to retain his honor.” A slimy smirk spreads across his face. “Go release her then, boy, and be chained in her place.”
Gray rises, bowing deeply at the waist. “Thank you, Your Royal Grace.” Slowly, he turns on his heels and approaches me.
As he does, his eyes never leave mine. He does not glance down, to the side, along any ridge of my body—only at me, at my face. Just mossy gold gazing into a frozen sea of amethyst.
He takes the key from the guard and begins unlocking my shackles. Under his breath, so low I barely catch it, he murmurs, “I am so sorry, Lyra. I am so unbelievably sorry.”
When the last shackle has been undone, my knees have an infuriating bout of weakness, and I buckle. Gray catches me under the elbows, holding me steady.
“Not yet,” he whispers against the top of my head. “Stay strong just a little longer.”
Just a little longer .
Gray pulls off his tunic, exposing his perfectly unblemished skin, and he gently places it in my hands. “I’ve never been so glad to give you this before.” His eyes hold onto mine for as long as they can, sure and true .
Tears give a warning prick along the shore of my eyes, and my bottom lip quivers.
It’s the same.
Gray is still looking at me the same way.
But I shove the thought down and tug Gray’s tunic over my head, covering my exposed body—the fabric like a hot, sand-coated brand on my oozing lacerations.
I bite down on the skin of my cheek and lift my chin.
I will be strong for Gray. I will be strong because I owe it to myself to not let the king watch me crumble.
To make sure he knows he can’t make me shatter into fragments.
Even if I would barter with any god, monster, or sorceress to stop Gray from doing this.
It should be me.
No. Gods no. It is all coming back…familiar yet distant. The pain is old, yet is as fresh as the bleeding wounds on my back.
It should be me. It should be me. It should—
The cracking sound of the first lashing snaps me back to the present. I hadn’t even seen the guards lock Gray’s shackles.
He grits his teeth, but nothing else. Not a single noise slips past his lips.
“Impressive,” the king comments. “Most unfamiliar with the touch of a whip squeal at first contact.”
Despite knowing that I shouldn’t—that it’ll only bring me more pain and heartache—I glance at Sterling. There is a wrinkle in his brow as his lips part slightly, fear and worry being the iron pry bar to crack him open.
The king’s rough command jolts my eyes back to Gray. “Again.”
After the whip lances across his back—Gray again only wincing in pain, not giving anything more—King Alastair lifts his chin. “How many is that, boy?”
Beginning to shake, whether from pain or something else, I can’t be certain, Gray lifts his chin and meets the king’s eyes. “Two, Your Majesty.”
The king hums with pleasure. “Let’s make it three.”
Without further warning, the glass cracks against Gray’s skin, and a few pieces wedge into the crimson seams of his once unblemished flesh. The guard yanks the thong of the whip back, and pieces of Gray’s skin detach with it—flying through the air like chunky snowflakes.
He grunts, the pain becoming too much, and I instinctively step forward. But he jerks his head up and shakes it.
I’m okay. He mouths the words with gentle conviction, and an invisible knife twists in my heart at the sight.
Four lashings.
Five lashings.
Six lashings.
On the seventh, Gray wails in pain, his back a bloodied, mangled mess of zig-zagging marks oozing clumps of skin and blood. I can tell his body is giving out from the way he’s buckling. Yet the shackles won’t let him fall.
Cruel—the King of Rivara is so, so cruel.
Flames dance in my mind, twirling around my skin in a taunting reminder of a night from my past. One where tiny fists beat against the ground and a strange feeling appears.
So long it’s been since I’ve thought about that strange feeling. I’ve never given light to the events that transpired back then. I only buried them in the shadows, wishing them away, denying their existence.
But watching Gray suffer—seeing his body twisted and mangled because of me—is the shovel digging up the grave of memories I buried long ago.
Eight lashings, and Gray screams—a sound that will haunt my nightmares.
That clicking feeling intensifies, and something begins to bubble in my stomach, spreading to my veins. My chest rises and falls with erratic breaths, and a tingling feeling shoots down my spine, spreading to my fingertips.
Am I about to pass out? Is it from the pain—from the resurfacing memories I am still unable to face?
My breathing grows shallow and my skin warms, growing as hot as the boiling waters of Illithious Lake. Frightened, I look to Sterling—to the only father figure I have ever had .
He looks pale and…
Perplexed.
Am I imagining that? Is my broken mind playing tricks on me? Sterling never openly wears such damning expressions.
The clicking sensation rises to my chest, and it is behind my breastbone that I feel it lock into place. A surge of electricity floods my veins, lacing around my spine, twirling as it rises up, up, up to the nape of my neck.
My head swims with a surging high, buzzing and tingling.
I return my gaze to Sterling, and he looks…strained? Why does he look haggard all of a sudden? Like he barely has the energy to continue standing?
Nine lashings.
Gray, wrecked with pain, lets out an ear-splitting cry. And the king laughs. He actually laughs.
The feeling inside of me crescendos, and my vision begins to blur and throb. Sterling collapses beside the king, steadying himself with an outstretched hand before he can fall on his face, drawing the attention of King Alastair.
And it is in that moment I explode.