CHAPTER 46 Torj
CHAPTER 46
Torj
‘The unintended aftermath of an injury can be just as devastating as an intended effect’
– Magical Transference
T HE BOOKS IN the masters’ section of the archives had proven far more detailed than those Torj had tried before. He lost track of time, completely absorbed in the text Farissa had recommended on magical wounds. His lightning scars prickled as he read about injuries that never healed, and lesions that were cursed, slowly taking hold of their victim and poisoning from the initial site outwards...The tome went into great depth about several case studies throughout history wherein a magic wielder – a royal of the midrealms – had inflicted their magic upon a subject, resulting in a life-altering wound.
He ran his fingers through his hair as he started on a paragraph about power transference. According to the author, in dire situations, power could be transferred from a royal-blooded magic wielder to another host...but how those hosts processed magic they were not built for was another thing entirely. Depending on the amount of exposure to raw power, the consequences could range from mild to extreme.
Torj rubbed his chest again, glancing at the letter from Audra he’d read four times already, lying open by the book.
I expect a report by the end of the week , she demanded. We need to know if this wound has compromised your abilities. We need to know the extent of the damage immediately. Do not share this information with anyone. Not even Elwren. Especially not Elwren.
The blunt, efficient orders were no less than he expected from Thezmarr’s Guild Master. He didn’t like the urgency of her commands, but he understood the discretion she required. While Farissa had encouraged him to share his troubles with Wren, Torj agreed with Audra. He didn’t want Wren knowing that in saving him, she had potentially doomed him. No matter how much she resented him, he knew she would punish herself if she thought she’d caused him harm.
Midway through turning to the next page, Torj froze. The intoxicating scent of spring rain and jasmine washed over him in a tantalizing wave.
But Wren wasn’t here. Or if she had been, she wasn’t any more...
At the thought of her name, something jerked in his chest, and suddenly he found himself on his feet. A tug from within led him through the shelves, and he noticed that for the first time, the archives were completely empty. The scholars who had occupied the other study nooks had vanished, and all their books lay strewn about, unattended, as though they had all left in a hurry.
Panic bloomed like a poisonous flower in his gut, and he found himself running towards the exit.
Something was wrong.
He broke into a sprint, his hammer at the ready as he charged through the corridors and spotted a crowd gathered at the far end.
No, no, no...Not again.
Fear was acrid on his tongue, and he shoved past the students and teachers.
In his presence, they stepped back, making room to reveal a body crumpled on the stone floor.
A simple linen gown, an apron tied at the back...
I promised I’d protect you. I vowed to shield you from harm.
Torj wasn’t breathing, not as his gaze rose to the mass of bronze pinned in a messy bun. He had faced death many times throughout his years of fighting, but this? This was something he could not comprehend.
She was his to protect. His—
Hands trembling, ready to tear the world apart, Torj reached for the familiar slim shoulders. It was the cruellest thing, willing time to slow, to stop entirely, only for it to speed up, his heart hammering against his ribs as he turned her over.
A strangled sound escaped him.
She had a similar build, a similar complexion.
But it wasn’t her.
This poor dead woman wasn’t Wren Embervale.
He didn’t register leaving the body and the crowd in the hallway, only the air whipping at his cheeks as he ran through the residences, navigating the twists and turns by muscle memory, his thoughts only of her, of the panic that still raged like a black storm in his chest.
Cal was stationed outside her door, and Torj shoved past him without a word, bursting into Wren’s rooms.
‘She’s—’ was all Cal managed behind him as he shut the door in his fellow Warword’s face and scanned the chamber wildly. Chest heaving, he saw her, dropping his hammer to the ground with a heavy thud.
She stood where she always did, at her workbench, several books lying open on the chaotic surface, her hands busy with ingredients, her hair swept up off her neck into that poison-tipped pin. A breath shuddered out of him as she met his eyes.
In two strides he was in front of her, a vial clattering to the bench as he skimmed her body with his hands. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Torj, no, I—’
But her assurances did nothing to convince him. He scrutinized her from head to toe for injuries, for any sign of harm, something inside him raging like an inferno.
‘I thought you were dead,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘I thought that was you lying there in that hallway. I thought I’d failed you, like I failed—’
‘Torj...I’m fine,’ Wren told him, flushing as she glanced down at his hands on her.
Torj did the only thing he could think of to expel all that pent-up energy coursing through him. He rounded on her. ‘You were out in the halls when you shouldn’t have been. You were meant to be in your rooms. I told Cal to keep you—’
‘Cal is not my keeper,’ she hissed back. ‘And nor are you, for that matter.’
‘That’s exactly what I am. It’s my job to keep you safe,’ he snarled.
‘I went to the archives,’ Wren snapped back. ‘To a fucking library . If you’re so damn concerned about my safety, why weren’t you there with me?’ She jabbed him in the chest with her finger.
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘ None of my concern? ’ Wren blazed on. ‘I can’t deal with this. You demand to know everything about me, have access to everything I do, and yet I ask you a simple question and it’s none of my concern ?’
‘This isn’t a two-way street, Embervale,’ he bit back. ‘I’m your bodyguard. You’re my principal.’
‘So you keep fucking saying.’
Anger flared brighter. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
A cry of frustration escaped Wren, her chest heaving. ‘I can’t stand you.’
‘You think I can stand you ?’
As the fragile truce between them went up in a blaze, Wren was radiant in her fury. By the looks of things, she wanted to throttle him, and the feeling was fucking mutual. Whatever moment of understanding they had shared in the infirmary was eclipsed by his anger. A second ago he had thought she was dead, and now, here she was, her breaths coming fast, her breasts rising and falling, her cheeks tipped with pink as she yelled back at him. He could feel the heat of her, and in a moment of insanity, his eyes fell to her mouth. Emotions crashed through him, hard: guilt, pure terror and rage, a blow with the strength of the gods themselves.
Torj didn’t think. He moved on instinct alone, pulling her towards him. Wren peered up at him and touched her palm to his still pounding heart. It was the weight of a sparrow, nothing more, and yet, it was almost enough to bring him to his knees.
Hardly breathing, he let his head dip, and her pupils dilated.
‘Embers...’ he warned, his anger giving way to a need that turned molten. The warmth of her hand over his chest only amplified the roiling storm beneath his scars, but it was not alone. Wren’s storm thrummed alongside the magic in him.
Fury, power and want entwined as he warred with himself. Heir. Ward. Poisoner. Off limits.
But it was a force bigger than him, bigger than them both.
And he was helpless against it.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered.
He speared his fingers through her silken hair, and kissed her.
She gasped as his lips met hers. Nothing had ever felt so good, so right. Her mouth was lush and warm, and she tasted like all manner of temptation. Wren shifted in his hold, pressing herself against him entirely. A tight coil of desire unfurled within him, and he had to hold himself in check, had to wait for her to make the choice, to deepen the kiss.
A desperate groan escaped him as Wren’s lips parted beneath his.
At long last, Torj took what he’d been yearning for so long.
Potion bottles and tools clattered as he pushed Wren up against the workbench, kissing her with the force of the storm that raged within. A claiming. A declaration without words. He kissed her hard and deep, his need morphing into fervour.
The kiss spoke for him, fierce and passionate, unyielding. The end of one thing, and the beginning of something new.
His mouth moved over hers in the way that he’d imagined countless times. She kissed him back, her tongue brushing against his, her fingernails digging into his arms as though she’d never let go. He crushed her to him, feeling the swell of her breasts and the heat of her body soaking into his.
When she whimpered, his knees buckled. That sound .
He lost himself in her, in her taste, in the way her body responded beneath his, pulling him closer, demanding more. He would give her everything. There had never been any question of that.
He was like granite against her softness, and he moaned low in his throat as she ground against him. His hands traced down her sides, following every dip and hollow with reverence until he cupped the curve of her backside and lifted her.
More books and potions, and a mortar and pestle, went tumbling from the workbench as Torj slid Wren onto it, never breaking their kiss, his breathing ragged as she wrapped her legs around him.
Gods, the taste of her, the feel of her melting into him – the magic coursing through them both, connecting them so thoroughly that Torj couldn’t imagine the intensity of being inside her.
‘Gods,’ Wren gasped against his lips, her cheeks flushed, her breasts rising at the top of her bodice. She followed his gaze, her own hooded. ‘Touch me.’
His mouth was on her again in an instant. His hand circled the delicate column of her throat, feeling her pulse flutter wildly beneath her skin before he let it trail across her collarbone and down, cupping her breast.
Her moan nearly undid him then and there. He had never dared to hope that he’d be the one to coax those noises from her, and now here she was, writhing beneath his touch, arching into him as though she couldn’t get enough.
Nor could he. He could feel her life’s blood in his own veins, in the marrow of his bones. Whatever the tether was between them, it went taut – a cord of lightning from one to the other.
He was completely overwhelmed by her, completely rattled, and completely and utterly addicted. The scars marring his flesh didn’t feel like an old injury, not as her hands found their way under his shirt and traced the fire in his skin. They felt like a source of strength, of power. They felt like Wren .
You’re mine , he wanted to say. He wanted to claim her in every way imaginable. He wanted to follow the instinct roaring within him.
But he couldn’t.
She would never be his. Not truly.
And at that realization, he broke away.