Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Sunlight burns my eyes the next morning. I stand easier in my chains, broken bones healed and internal bruises soothed. I can’t bring myself to feel any gratitude, though.
Not when the waterwielder’s father is stalking toward me, his face a mask of lethal calm.
“Arbinji filth,” he sneers.
I spit at his feet.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. He slams his staff into my neck. Pain erupts across my throat as air becomes a luxury.
“How many men are stationed at the border?”
I wheeze uselessly until my airways loosen enough for me to draw a shallow breath. “Don’t you … have scouts … for that?”
My hard-won breath rushes out of me as the staff crashes into my abdomen. Drops of blood spray from my mouth, landing on his pristine blue robes.
“Careful, Commander.” His voice is a silken threat. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to kill you.”
“And leave your daughter a widow?”
Rage flashes through his eyes before he masks it. He tsks before the back of his hand cracks against my cheek.
There’s movement in the tent behind him, and the waterwielder emerges, eyes still bleary. All vestiges of sleep are blinked away when she catches sight of her father standing rigid before me, staff in hand. That can’t be horror on her face, can it?
“How many men are stationed at the border?” Tormik draws my attention back.
“Fifteen, last I checked. Some might have died by now, though. We’re not suited for Tundrayn’s abysmal temperatures.”
Tormik clenches his jaw. “Has Varad secured an alliance with Volca?”
“Maybe. Probably not. My brother’s an ass.” I grin, satisfaction crackling through me as he bristles. “Not half as charming as I am. You lucked out with me as a son-in-law.”
“I’m afraid you’re not taking me seriously,” Tormik murmurs.
With a wave of his hand, he summons a ball of water from the trough behind the platform. It twists through the air, swirling and shimmering until it forms a sphere.
I know what comes next. My lungs scream as I suck in as much air as I can hold. The glimmering orb floats through the air—then submerges my head.
The water is cold, colder than when his daughter did the exact same thing days ago.
I don’t move.
I don’t struggle.
I won’t give them the satisfaction. Tension lines every inch of my body as I slowly release small amounts of air, bubbles floating to the surface.
Minutes pass.
My chest aches.
My lungs burn.
Unbidden, my eyes find the waterwielder, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Her hands are clenched into tight fists … and are those—tears?
They can’t be.
Some deep, idiotic part of me still holds onto a desperate hope that maybe she feels something for me.
Black splotches blur my vision. There’s a vise around my chest, squeezing tighter with every denied breath.
The waterwielder is blurry in my vision—the other woman places a hand on her shoulder and murmurs something in her ear. She shakes her head, pulling out of the woman’s grasp.
And she watches.
The pressure in my chest grows tighter. My head swings from side to side, trying to escape the bubble of water, to find some pocket of air. To draw in even half a breath.
My vision swims dangerously, and the water finally crashes to the platform with a loud splash. I sputter, sucking in heaving lungfuls of air between hacking, watery coughs.
“How many soldiers are stationed at the border?” Tormik asks again, almost bored.
“Three”—cough—“but your pathetic warriors”—cough—“wouldn’t last ten minutes”—cough—“against them.”
Tormik submerges my head again.
The waterwielder’s knees shake.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Crack. Shit. Another rib.
I suck in air through clenched teeth as the scarred warrior uses me as a punching bag, my jaw aching from where a different man punched me so hard my teeth rattled.
“You killed my brother.”
Punch.
“My father.”
Punch.
“I’m going to dance on your fucking grave.”
Punch.
Their laughter echoes around me.
Another warrior takes his place. He seems to favor my ribs. Another brutal crack, and I can’t cage the grunt that claws from my throat.
Across the center of the camp, the waterwielder stumbles out from the general’s tent. Her face is pale, and sunlight glints off beads of sweat dotting her forehead. My brows furrow as she stumbles forward, as though her legs aren’t completely under her command.
Her icy blue eyes are fixed on the warrior punching me.
She walks toward the platform, still unsteady on her feet.
Before she’s halfway across, the other woman—Vykiss—stops her with a hand on her elbow, whispering something in her ear.
The healer guides her to the tent they share, then emerges a moment later alone.
Her face is resolute as she approaches the four warriors surrounding me. The brute before me sneaks in one more hard punch before turning to face her.
“I require assistance,” she says primly.
The men tower over her, but she appears unfazed.
“Tarlock, please search the forest for berries. Lingonberries, specifically.” The man who’d been pummeling my ribs raises a brow, but nods all the same.
“Sevek and Makran, both of you tend to the horses, please.” She nods toward the last man, his long hair unbraided.
“And Rothka, I need your help with my supplies.”
The men don’t question her, dispersing quickly to follow her orders without a word. My brow furrows—from what I’ve seen, Vykiss is the camp’s healer. She has no position of power or formal authority.
Sorka emerges from his tent as she crosses the camp, the hulking warrior at her side. She dips her chin at him in greeting, and he nods back, stiff and formal.
But his eyes give him away. I recognize the unbridled affection brimming in his dark blue gaze. I’m certain the same lovesick expression has been reflected on my face countless times over the past few months.
I grit my teeth. It’s how the captain must have looked at her, too.
Vykiss is with Sorka—it’s why the men listen to her. Why this lone woman walks freely in the camp amongst warriors. Why they heed her command without question.
Sorka watches the woman until she’s disappeared from sight. His narrowed gaze fixes on me, but he doesn’t approach. He leaves me alone with my thoughts to wonder why Vykiss stopped the men from beating me further—and what exactly the waterwielder might have told her.
Bright blood dripping from pale wrists.
Panting, heaving, shaking gasps.
“Mayah…”
Frosted eyes, the prettiest I’ve ever seen.
“You did this to me.” Her voice is wrought with wrath.
“Heal yourself. Please.” My voice is drenched with desperation.
She can’t.
She won’t.
I never stood a chance.
My power thrums through me. Soft skin beneath my palms.
“You took everything I have.”
Take what’s left, too.
It’s all yours. Always been yours. I am still fucking yours.
The frost melts from her eyes with each slow blink. They burn through me, searing desire replacing her fury. It’s not real—it’s never been real.
Her small hands fist in the fabric of my tunic. She pulls me closer, mouth angling for mine and I—
I let her.
She already hates me. She can hate me a bit more for this, too.
Her lips crash into mine with so much force, she sends us tumbling backwards. Nails raking through my hair, across my shoulders, down my chest. Soft thighs bracket my hips, grinding against me until I loose a rough groan.
Her tongue battles mine, every husky moan setting my blood alight.
Soft hair tangles beneath my fingers.
The tang of copper as I bite her lip.
She moans louder, pressing harder into me and—
Something shoves at my boot.
My eyes snap open. Fuck. I’d been struggling to remain awake, knowing she would come heal my freshly broken ribs under the cover of night.
But a different waterwielder stands before me now, hatred boiling in his familiar blue gaze.
Her father.
“You interrupted my dream, Tormik,” I wheeze, trying not to wince at the effort it takes. “And it was delightful.”
For a beat, he just stares at me, frosted eyes reminiscent of my dream.
“Did you touch my daughter?”
Did I—
A sudden blinding rage scalds my ribs. If she’d married Faramir like he’d planned, she’d have suffered tremendously. My half-brother would have taken great pleasure in hurting her in unthinkable ways.
I force my lips to curve into a mocking grin, even as violent fury curdles in my gut. “Tormik, please. That’s between me and my wife.”
My teeth clack together as he backhands me.
“Answer me! Did. You. Hurt. Her.”
My mask falls, blistering rage erupting. “What did you think was going to happen to her?” I snarl, teeth bared. “When you wrapped her in a bow and gifted her to your enemy? Where did this sudden concern come from, Tormik?”
“You despicable bastard,” he hisses, knuckles white around the staff that will likely soon be slamming into my already-broken ribs.
I can’t bring myself to give a skiesdamn, not when this monster hasn’t shown an ounce of care for the woman he was supposed to protect.
Not when he sent her to Arbinj.
Not when he refused to send a single letter.
Not when he ignored her when he first arrived in camp.
“You’re the one who sent your daughter to your enemy’s bed. Whatever she’s endured, it’s by your hand.”
Veins bulge in his neck, his face contorting into a fearsome grimace. I brace for his blow, hands clenched into fists, then—
The sky rumbles. The ominously familiar sound raises the hair on the back of my neck.
This isn’t a natural storm.
It’s—
Fucking Skies, it’s—
It’s him.
A powerful bolt of lightning strikes the ground behind the platform, its heat singeing the back of my neck.
Eyes wide, I stare at the king of Tundrayn.
He’s a stormwielder.