Chapter 9 #2
I grip Oliver's arm, catching his eye. He nods, understanding. We move silently, Oliver leading, heading for the door. Each step feels like it takes an eternity. The floorboard creaks under my foot, and I freeze.
"Did you hear something?" Thrain's guest asks.
"Probably servants. This place is never quiet."
We reach the door. Oliver's hand is on the handle when Thrain's voice stops us cold.
"Actually, I should check something first."
He's moving back to the desk. Back to the drawer.
Oliver doesn't hesitate. He shoves the door open, and we run.
"Hey! Stop!"
Shouts erupt behind us. Guards. Servants. The entire household mobilizing.
Oliver's hand grips mine, pulling me through corridors I don't recognize. We take turns at random, trying to lose our pursuers, but they know this place better than we do.
"This way!" I spot the servants' stairwell, narrow and dark. We plunge down it, emerging into what looks like the kitchens.
Servants scatter, screaming. Shoving through them, we head for any exit we can find.
A guard appears in front of us, but Oliver doesn't slow, just lowers his shoulder and crashes into him. They go down in a tangle of limbs, Oliver's fist connecting with the guard's face once, twice.
"Oliver, come on!"
He's up, moving again. We find a door and wrench it open, bursting into the rain-soaked gardens.
More guards are behind us. Ahead, the wall looms impossibly high.
"Can you climb it?" Oliver gasps.
"I'll have to."
We hit the wall running. Oliver boosts me up, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on rain-slick stone. I find a hold, pull myself higher. Oliver is climbing beside me, moving fast.
"There! On the wall!"
Arrows whistle past us. One catches Oliver's shoulder, tearing through fabric and flesh. He grunts but doesn't stop climbing.
We reach the top, only to find a sheer drop on the other side. Too far. We'd break bones for sure.
"Jump!" Oliver yells. "We don't have a choice!"
And so I jump.
The impact drives the air from my lungs, pain lancing through my ankle. Oliver lands beside me, rolling to absorb the impact. Then he's up, hauling me to my feet.
"Run!"
I do, my ankle screaming with every step. Oliver has his good arm around my waist, half carrying me. Behind us, guards are scrambling over the wall.
Our carriage is gone. Corvask must have moved it when he heard the commotion.
We duck into an alley, pressing into the shadows. Oliver's breathing is labored, blood seeping from the arrow wound in his shoulder. My ankle throbs, already swelling.
"We need to keep moving," he pants. "They'll search the entire district."
"I can't. My ankle..."
"Then I'll carry you." He moves to scoop me up despite his injury.
"Oliver, no. You're hurt."
"Not as hurt as we'll be if they catch us." He lifts me into his arms, his face going pale with pain. "Hold on."
He moves through the alleys, avoiding main streets, keeping to the shadows. I can feel his strength failing, feel the tremor in his arms. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow.
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, we reach a small plaza. Corvask is there, the carriage hidden in the shadows of a building.
"Thank the gods," he breathes, jumping down to help us. "I heard the alarm bells. What happened?"
"Later," Oliver grunts, practically falling into the carriage. "Just get us home."
I collapse beside him, my hands immediately going to his shoulder. The arrow is still lodged there, the wound bleeding freely.
"This needs to come out," I tell him.
"Not here. Wait until we're safe."
The transport lurches into motion. We're both soaked, shivering, bleeding. And we failed. We got proof, but we didn't get out with it.
"I'm sorry," Oliver says quietly. "I fucked up. Should have been faster, more careful..."
"You saved our lives." I grip his uninjured hand. "If you hadn't reacted when you did, they would have caught us both."
"But now Thrain knows someone was in his study. He'll secure the evidence. We've lost our only leverage."
He's right. The raid was our one chance, and we blew it.
We ride in defeated silence, the weight of our failure crushing. When we finally reach my estate, Corvask has to help us both inside. Healer Madris is waiting, summoned by Corvask's foresight.
"Gods above," Madris breathes, seeing Oliver's shoulder. "What happened?"
"Arrow wound, obviously."
Oliver is taken to his quarters. I limp after them, refusing to leave his side. Madris works quickly, cutting away Oliver's shirt, examining the wound.
"This is going to hurt," he warns.
"Just do it," Oliver groans.
I hold his hand as Madris pulls the arrow free. Oliver's grip tightens painfully, but he doesn't cry out. The healer works quickly, cleaning and stitching the wound, applying salves that smell sharp and medicinal.
"You're lucky," Madris tells him. "Few inches to the right and it would have hit an artery. You'd be dead."
Madris turns to me next, examining my ankle. "Sprained, not broken. You need to stay off it for at least a week."
A week. We don't have a week. We have hours.
After Madris leaves, Oliver and I sit in silence. The adrenaline has worn off, leaving only exhaustion and pain.
"It's over," I say. "We have nothing to fight him with. By tomorrow evening, he'll demand his answer, and I'll have no choice but to comply or face the council."
Oliver is staring at the wall, his expression unreadable. "There's still one option we haven't considered."
"What?"
He turns to look at me, and something in his eyes makes my breath catch. "We tell the truth. We go to the council ourselves, before Thrain can. We tell them everything."
"Oliver, they'll never..."
"Hear me out." He shifts, wincing at the movement.
"We tell them about Thrain's blackmail, his threats, his attempts to force you into marriage.
We tell them he's been murdering his livestock and keeping trophies.
Even without physical evidence, our testimony might be enough to at least open an investigation. "
"And what about us? About our relationship?"
"We tell them that too. We don't hide it. We own it." His hand finds mine. "We tell them I'm not livestock to you anymore. That I'm...whatever I am. Partner. Lover. Whatever word fits."
"They'll destroy us both."
"Maybe." He squeezes my hand. "Or maybe some of them will listen. Maybe some of them will see that the system is wrong, that treating sentient beings as property is wrong. It's a long shot, but it's all we have left."
I want to dismiss it as na?ve, impossible. But looking at him, at his determination, I feel my chest tighten.
He's right. It's our only option.
"If we do this," I say slowly, "there's no going back. Even if we win, even if they believe us about Thrain, everything changes. Our relationship becomes public. I'll be ostracized. You'll be seen as...I don't even know what."
"An uppity human who doesn't know his place?" Oliver's smile is grim. "Let them see me that way. I don't care anymore."
"I care. I care what happens to you."
"I know." He pulls me closer, mindful of both our injuries. "But I care more about having a chance at a real future with you than I care about playing it safe."
My throat tightens. "A real future."
"Yeah. One where we're not hiding. Not lying. Where we can figure out what the hell we are to each other without worrying about who's watching."
"That sounds impossible."
"Most worthwhile things are."
I rest my head against his uninjured shoulder, breathing him in. "We could lose everything."
"We already have everything to lose. Might as well go down fighting."
A laugh escapes me. "When did you become the optimistic one?"
"When I realized I'd rather die free and in love than live as livestock."
The words hang in the air between us. In love. He said it so casually, like it was obvious, like we both already knew.
Maybe we did.
"Oliver..."
"Don't." He tilts my face up, his eyes intense. "Don't say anything yet. Wait until after tomorrow. Wait until we've faced the council and whatever comes next. Then, if we're both still standing, we'll talk about what we are. What we want. All of it."
"And if we're not both still standing?"
"Then at least we tried." He kisses me. "At least we fought for it."
I kiss him back, pouring everything I can't say into it. Fear and hope and something that feels dangerously close to love.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his. "Tomorrow then."
"Tomorrow," he agrees.