60. Harper
60
HARPER
F ury flashed across Saradon’s face, which was swiftly veiled. He stepped forward and struck Harper across the cheek, sending her sprawling to the floor once more. Her ears rang from the strength of his impact, and her jaw blinded her with pulsing pain. She heard his voice as if from a distance as inky blackness wrapped itself around her and tendrils of his power seeped into her.
“You will serve me, daughter, whether you will it or not. I will not see the words of Erendriel hold sway over my destiny.” His voice darkened and deepened, crackling with a power the likes of which she could not fully perceive. It blanketed the space, smothered her—and sent her heart into a frenzy at the prospect of her impending demise.
“Get her out of my sight,” he commanded. She realised that he spoke to Dimitrius. “I have more work to do persuading the Indis to join us. I will return to continue this. I expect you to have managed her better the next time I lay eyes upon her.”
She felt Saradon’s gaze, even with her eyes closed, as though it pierced into the core of her soul. She cowered before it, curling away from his attention. Then it passed and Saradon, along with his power, was gone, but Harper had nothing left to give. She faded into the welcome, cool, dark embrace of unconsciousness.
Soothing, wet warmth bathed her forehead. Gentle hands stroked the pain away, passing the soft cloth across her cheeks and back to her forehead again, moving in a slow, comforting sweep across her brow. Magic chased it, the welcome tingle calming as it banished away the angry pain in her jaw, along with the dull aches and jarring hurt elsewhere in her body.
Hands grasped hers, soft and warm. The wet cloth passed over her fingers and between them, across her palms, as whoever tended to her meticulously cleaned her. Her hand was gently placed back onto her stomach—onto a coverlet there, she registered a moment later, soft and warm—before the other was picked up and the same treatment administered. Light, gentle and warm, filtered through her closed eyelids. A familiar scent drifted across her, though she could not place from where. It was too much to open her eyes. She slipped into the darkness once more.
When next she came to, the same hands once more bathed her forehead. She felt burning hot—the wet cloth cool upon her brow. She moaned a little, turning her face into the cloth. Now she could feel the soft, smooth, woollen coverlet beneath her hands. Her fingers circled lazily upon it, relishing the comfort. The light was brighter this time. Everything still hurt, though the tingle of magic still ran through her, banishing the worst of it. She slowly cracked her eyes open, one at a time, for even the dim light felt oppressively bright after her descent into the dark.
Her lips curled into a faint smile as she slowly turned her head to behold the hands that had tended her. She froze when she saw who they belonged to.
“Hello, Harper,” said Dimitrius evenly. He sat on the bed beside her. His hands lay in his lap, the cloth in his grasp.
“ You ,” she croaked with as much vehemence as she could inject into her feeble tone.
“Yes, me. I have a name, you know. Call me Dimitri.” He rolled his eyes, but his voice held no bite.
Her hands clutched at the coverlet. “What are you doing? How dare you! Did you? You didn’t?” She had no boots on—they were neatly by the door. As far as she could tell, she still wore her pants, her shirt—now untucked—and her cloak hung over the back of the chair Dimitrius sat upon.
He seemed to understand and grinned with a hint of his usual arrogance and cockiness. “Don’t worry. I used my magic. I didn’t peek. I can, though, if you like.”
Harper tried to retort, but only an indignant croak emerged. She hoped he was telling the truth. That he had not removed her dignity or worse as she slept. She wished she had the energy to throw something, anything, but she sank back onto the pillow instead. She still hurt too much, and her limbs felt leaden.
Dimitrius winked suggestively. The top of his unbuttoned shirt slipped open as he shifted in the seat, revealing those dark tattoos that wound up his chest and the side of his neck. She could have sworn the markings moved as she watched—and blinked harder, dispelling the sleep in her eyes and berating the poor light.
“You’re welcome,” he drawled, a hint of a twinkle in his smile. The smile she hated and desired. The one that presumed he could have whatever he wanted.
“I don’t need your help. Begone, you fiend!” All the comfort of that tender touch had vanished, and anger filled the raw hollow it had stripped from her defences.
“Oh, good. You must be alright if you’re cursing me,” he said, looking at her lazily from under his lashes. His smile widened as he crossed his legs and leaned toward her, dropping the wet cloth on the coverlet. “Go on. Try out some more insults on me.”
Sapped of strength and will, Harper scraped together what little she had to pick up the cloth and throw it into his face. It slapped wetly against his cheek and plopped into his lap, wetting the fine anthracite fabric. He blinked in surprise before recovering his customary swagger—and laughing. A belly-deep guffaw, confound him. “Feisty. I like it.”
Harper swore at him again, her face burning and agitation crawling under her skin at how vulnerable she found herself. “Get out!”
Dimitri pushed himself up from the bed and sauntered out, laughing. “You’re welcome.”
Harper glared after him, noting the quiet click of the door as it shut and the snap of a lock. She was determined to stay awake, to make sure he did not return, but exhaustion assailed her again, and the blackness called to her. It was as though some of Saradon’s magic lingered. It filled her limbs and mind with heavy sluggishness and pulled her down into the darkness, where dreams swirled of goblins and Saradon and Dimitrius with that cloth. She gladly fell, because the nightmares seemed better than the waking reality.