Chapter 19 Lyra
Lyra
“Here.”
Shading my eyes, I look up. An unfamiliar Darkwielder holds out his hand, gesturing at the full basket beside me. “I can empty that for you. I’m going that way anyway.”
There’s no hate in his expression. Only a wary kind of curiosity. “Thanks, but I’ll do it.”
I don’t need Duskbane calling me lazy, even though I’ve emptied at least seven overfilled-heavy baskets by now.
My back is soaked with sweat, my stomach aching but not unbearable.
And the knife that I slipped from the table at breakfast is digging into my spine, though it’s blunt enough to be close to useless.
Getting to my feet, I brush off the dirt and pick up the basket.
The gloves the prince tossed at me before he stalked off are padded enough that I barely feel the rub of the wicker against my bandages.
Beneath that, though, my palms itch to no end, and I grip the basket tighter as I turn.
To my surprise, the soldier falls in beside me as I make my way up the long row. “There’s been a lot of talk about you.”
I can only imagine. My eyes slide over to the animal enclosure.
Duskbane is watching. He stabs the tines of his pitchfork into the ground, leaning on it as he watches us with a scowl tightening his face.
He appears to have lost his shirt.
And while the number of positive thoughts I’ve had about the male number very, very low, even I can admit that his chest is… something worth looking at. When I look up, the soldier stares at me, and my cheeks heat as I clear my throat. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I’m Beckett.” The soldier offers me a friendly sort of smile. Non-threatening. He keeps a polite distance from me. “I was the scout who found you in the Veilspire, you know.”
“Oh.” I study him a little more closely. Tight, dark curls sit close to his skull, riftlines curving around his face, highlighting pale green eyes. “I should thank you, I suppose.”
He snorts in what seems like amusement. “Don’t sound too happy about it.”
He’s right. I’m being rude. “I’m sorry. Thank you. Genuinely.”
I’m flustered, and I don’t know why. Lifting the basket higher, I attempt to use the handles to assuage some of the itching in my hands, and several of the gold-toned fruits topple off. Before I can put the basket down, Beckett drops down to one knee and picks them up. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I say again. But my eyes drift once more.
Stop staring.
But he’s not standing by the enclosure anymore. Brows drawing down, I look—
“Don’t you have work to do, soldier?”
The icy words come from directly behind me. Duskbane stares Beckett down with an expression that suggests the next movement might be his last. “There’s plenty to do, if you’re finding yourself with additional time on your hands.”
Beckett swallows. The sound is audible. “Sir. I was just helping Lyra.”
“She needs no help from you.” Aedryn help me, but he seems to swell impossibly bigger. Or perhaps it’s the darkness, leaking from his palms. “And her work is done. Off you go.”
Beckett scrambles up, his face flaming red. “Of course. Bye, Lyra.”
“Bye.” He almost runs in his haste to get away. I frown at Duskbane. “That was rude.”
“You’re not here to draw my soldiers from their work,” he snaps. “He was watching you in the hall as well.”
My brows fly up. “I’m still waiting to hear where any of this is my problem. Take your growling somewhere else, and stop directing it at me. I did what you asked me to do.”
He sucks in a breath. Some unnamed thought flickers in his eyes, his lips twisting as he leans forward. “None of it is your problem, witch. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
If anything, he seems angrier with me now. My own temper rises to match his, and I jab my finger at his chest. “And for Aedryn’s sake, put a fucking shirt on.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I attempt to snap my jaw closed.
The anger wipes away, replaced with a smirk that both deepens and douses my anger. “Does the sight of my chest bother you, witch? Given your previous displays, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
My mind flashes back to my first night in the cells.
“Or perhaps it doesn’t bother you at all.
” His head tilts, voice lowering to a soft thrum as I stare at him in growing horror.
“Perhaps you think you’ll buy yourself better treatment if you coax your way into my bed.
Have you ever played in the shadows, witch?
I doubt you could take what I enjoy giving. ”
My mind veers between options, both leaning heavily toward utter disgust. And perhaps a tinge of fear. I swallow it down. His eyes widen as I step forward, lowering my gaze before I peer up at him between my lashes. My words are breathy, soft enough that he leans his head forward to listen.
My cheeks brushes against his, my whisper brushing his ear. “I would sooner return to his bed before I ever crawled into yours, wielder. And shadows make it easy to hide a lack of talent.”
I pull my face away, hiding the sourness I taste on my tongue at making any mention of Cindral at all. There is nothing I wouldn’t do—including bedding the Darkwielder prince currently glaring at me—to avoid any interaction with him for the rest of my life.
But I must show something, because any sense of control I have over this discussion dissolves with his next words. Short, sharp. And dark. “Did he hurt you?”
I falter, almost stumbling as I step back, but Duskbane follows as if he senses victory and intends to claim it. “Tell me.”
His hand reaches for me, and I—
I flinch.
My hand slams down on Duskbane’s wrist, angled to hit his bone, and he yanks it away with a curse as I keep my hands raised. “Don’t touch me.”
I’m… too warm. I can’t breathe.
And all I can see is that hand, coming toward me. His hand. Not the pale, dark-streaked skin before me but Cindral’s golden tone, so similar to my own. My breathing deepens, rasping, reaching for air that doesn’t come.
“Lyra.”
White spots dance in my vision, the tall form wavering. “I’m fine.”
He says something else, but the buzzing in my ears intensifies. The sourness in my mouth expands.
“Breathe.” The low command breaks through the panic that has stolen my control. Ripped it away as easily as parchment, so thin that I wonder if I ever truly had it at all. “Hands on your knees, and breathe through your mouth.”
I want to tell him to fuck off. This is his fault. But I fold over, focusing on pulling in the air that I desperately need until my vision begins to clear.
A pair of dark, worn leather boots comes into view. I keep my eyes on them.
Cindral rarely wore the same boots twice if he could help it.
He says nothing. Only waits quietly as I pull myself back together. As I build up those pieces once more, pulling in the broken threads until I can swallow. My hands still tremble as I raise my head.
“You don’t need to answer.” He studies me, and I despise the hint of softness behind his gaze. The faint thawing of hatred because he feels sorry for me. “I won’t touch the topic again.”
“I don’t want your sympathy.” Even my voice sounds broken, and I swallow again. “What else is on this list for today?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “I need to attend the training ground. I’ll take you back to the…I’ll take you back.”
The thought of that—of sitting and watching those bars for hours once again, not moving and alone with my own thoughts—
“Take me with you.”