Chapter Seventeen
Panic explodes in my veins, gripping my heart in ice.
The seconds it takes for my vision to return are too long and I struggle blindly against the arm restraining me.
“You’re no longer safe, Lady Ves.” Cyran’s voice comes from behind.
Peering over my shoulder, worried lavender eyes come into focus. Two more faces appear, Riordan and another I don’t recognize—blue eyes, tight dark curls.
“Cyran!” I shout, turning back to the center of the throne room. “Let me go!”
A wall of Sovereign Kings stands between me and Ryc. They block most of the view, but the sounds of fighting and the flashes of light tell me everything I need to know.
Ryc is going to kill Ganus.
He’s going to kill him and start a war.
This is exactly what Vaelyn wants.
It doesn’t matter how hard I struggle against Cyran, his grip is ironclad. The breastplate of his armor digs into the flesh of my bare back, a pain numbed by panic. Cold settles deep in my chest as I thrash.
“We’re to accompany you back to Ollora,” Riordan says, his voice gentle as if he’s trying to calm a wild beast.
The familiar shimmer of innate magic ripples over my skin, transforming panic into feverish terror. Slamming my heel, it crashes upon the top of Cyran’s boot—there’s a loud snap, and I falter under my weight, pitching us both off balance.
It’s enough to break his concentration.
I will not leave Ryc.
“Lady Ves—” His words become an enraged shout as the finger in my grip bends backward and the joint shatters.
His grip around my waist loosens, and it’s all I need.
Shedding my shoes, I buck, knocking Cyran back, and burst into a bare-footed sprint. Riordan reaches, utter shock upon his face, and his hands grasp at air as I slip around him.
A few kings turn with the commotion, granting me a narrowed view between them. Ryc towers over Ganus. The Sovereign King of Battalia lies pinned beneath him, his face smeared with crimson. Arm reared back, a ring of white light appears around Ryc’s fist as it descends.
“Ryc!” I cry. “Ryc, stop!”
None of the kings move. A few turn to the fight. Rowen gives me a rather imploring glance.
They wait and watch.
No better than demons.
The lot of them.
I reach to push them aside. My fingers brush against Darin’s shoulder and vibrations race across my palm. A warning—
Stars burst in my eyes.
The air rushes to escape my crushed lungs.
Halted by a large, corded arm, the vaulted ceiling comes into view. Coughing and wheezing, I brace to meet the floor.
I do not.
Fenryn’s face appears above mine, as he catches me. The expression upon his face is one of pure annoyance. I’m not returned to my feet, instead I’m lifted and slung over a shoulder with little effort.
“Damn hellscat,” he says with a small laugh. “You’re going to get hurt if you leap into that.”
Breathless, I’m left reeling for longer than I’d like.
With slow, steady steps, he backpedals, retreating from the line of kings, from Ryc. Struggling to breathe, I’m left with a dizzying view of the floor and Fenryn’s backside curtained by silver curls.
Using the belt of his robes as a ground, I push myself as upright as I can manage. Knees locked by his grip, I fling myself backward, straightening myself and take aim at his face.
“Good gods, Ves!” Fenryn shouts, shielding his head with his arm. “You’re feral!”
A deep, horrified scream sears through the room and I freeze in my assault. Twisting, I peer over my shoulder. From this vantage, granted by Fenryn’s height, I see over the wall of fae kings.
Ryc rises, hands bloodied.
“Consider the blood tithe claimed,” his cold voice loud in the silence of the room.
“Tanila,” Rowen commands, his tone stern.
“Of course,” she replies, hurrying toward Ganus upon the floor.
Face buried in his hands, he writhes upon the floor.
Relief drops my fists.
Not dead.
But my wild heart doesn’t slow.
“Alaryc, take Vestaris and await me in my study,” Rowen says accompanied by a firm stare that doesn’t invite argument.
“See, we’re done,” Fenryn says, his voice low as his grip loosens and I slide to my feet. “You got me good,” he laughs, wiping away the crimson from his nose.
The wall of kings breaks as Ryc approaches.
Drawn by forces I’ll never claim to understand, my feet move as golden eyes meet mine. Seeking his embrace, he curls himself around me as I push myself to my toes. His lips find mine and I cling to him, my sanity hinging on his touch.
“Your life,” his voice resonates through our bond. “Above all else. Always.”
?????????????
For a study, it looks nothing as a study should.
Walls decorated with fine art, clutches of plush seating with a few low tables, a desk in the corner of the room closest to the door, and—my brows furrow—a bar?
Along the far side of the room, an elaborately carved darkwood bar stretches across the length. Leather-topped stools and bottle-filled shelves compliment the setting. The bottles gleam in the light pouring through the eastern line of windows, casting an array of glowing amber upon the white wall.
Venturing deeper into the study, I approach the windows and the various plants soaking up the sun. The view granted is similar to the view from the hall. This… doesn’t feel like a study.
It feels like a tavern.
Like The Lioness.
Albeit much nicer.
Ryc closes the door and, crossing the room, sets my shoes upon the bar. One stands as it should, the other falls upon its side, having lost its thin heel.
“What were you thinking?” I demand, turning from the window. The warmth of the sun upon my skin is a balm I didn’t realize I needed.
He meets my gaze with lifted brows as he swings around the backside of the bar.
“You could have killed Ganus,” I say. Holding my stare, he reaches beneath the counter. “You could’ve incited a war!”
Both possibilities have ample opportunity to manifest.
Ganus may live for now, but gods know how he’ll retaliate after today. And knowing Ryc, he’ll have little reason to pull his punches a second time.
An annoyingly handsome smile spreads on his face.
“No concern for me?” he asks in a teasing drawl as he sets a pair of crystalline glasses upon the bar.
I scoff, bewildered by his question. “Of course there’s concern!” I fold my arms across my chest. “There would have been nothing I could have done to help you had things gone differently—”
Ryc laughs. “Cyran and Fenryn might beg to differ,” he counters, grinning.
I clamp my jaw shut.
“If you’re attempting to make me feel remorse, your efforts are wasted,” I retort, and he laughs again.
Shaking his head, he turns, reaching for a half-empty bottle from an upper shelf. Many lack labels and contain varying degrees of golden brown—how does one discern one from the other?
My eyes narrow. “You’re quite comfortable here.”
Ryc sets the bottle beside the glasses. “Council meetings typically take place in this room. Today was… a special circumstance.”
He uncorks the bottle and pours.
Swinging the bottle to the next glass he asks, “Are you alright?” A flash of golden eyes meet mine before vanishing beneath dark lashes.
“I’m fine.”
He chuckles.
“You didn’t sound fine,” he replies, setting the bottle aside.
What does he want me to say?
Admit I was terrified we stood on the cusp of plunging ourselves into a war where the only real victor is Vaelyn? That I was terrified at the possibility of losing him? That I didn’t want him to fight alone?
The grip I have on my arms tightens.
“Does your ego know no bounds?” I ask, keeping my voice level, and his chuckling turns into laughter.
“My ego, little love, swells anytime you look in my direction,” he says and his playful grin near vanishes. “But hearing you scream, that pierces through me sharper than any blade.”
Despite my earlier claim, remorse finds me and strikes straight through my heart. I heave a tight sigh, tearing my gaze from his.
“I have gone from being one of the most feared creatures in the hells to harmless,” I say, my voice quiet. “Seeing you fighting… on my behalf… I won’t let the threat of Vaelyn, the council, or even my innateless state stop me from being beside you.”
A soft smile returns to Ryc’s face as I meet his gaze. “Be careful, demon, it’s almost like you love me.”
I scoff a laugh at my words thrown back at me. “Imagine that.” I mirror his earlier sentiment, letting the urge to smile win. “What happens now?” I ask, bracing myself for the political sluice today has thrown open.
He pushes a glass toward the end of the bar in my direction.
“We celebrate our win,” he answers, lifting his glass.
With a shake of my head and a smile, I leave the tingling warmth of the sun and approach the end of the bar.
“We’re to celebrate a win while Ganus returns to Battalia to plot our demise?” I retort as I snatch the glass.
Laughing, Ryc’s eyes gleam. “The blood tithe is a sanctioned council motion. Retaliation is not.”
Council-sanctioned or not, it wouldn’t be enough to stop me from seeking recompense were I Sophira. And fae are more like demons than they’d ever care to admit.
My fingers curl tight around the glass.
“Going forward, Ganus will consider the impact of his innate,” Ryc says, tapping his glass against mine. “A secondary win.” He smirks as he lifts his glass to his lips.
Reluctantly, I do the same.
The liquor smells like oaky cherries.
Sheer, cruel deception.
On the tongue, it’s bitter.
Grimacing as I swallow, I set the glass upon the bar.
“Ganus mentioned the veil,” I say, swallowing against the lingering burn and bitterness in my throat. “That’s what took me by surprise.”
“If the veil is torn in places outside of Ollora, it hasn’t been brought to the council’s attention,” Ryc replies.
“It tells me the entire veil is weakening,” I say, pursing my lips.
“We’ll handle it as it comes,” Ryc says, his tone soft but firm. “We’re in position for little else.”
I’m not fond of truths leaving unease in their wake.
Despite how common it appears to be.
Behind me, the door opens.
Rowen enters.