24 Punch Drunk #2
Axel had managed to pull out some bread before Erryn forced him to sit. The food lay untouched. Willem sat with his ankle propped on a stool. Orphi paced the room, sniffing each of them in turn, searching for hidden injuries.
Elijah entered, his arms full of fresh strips of cloth and a small medical box. “Who’s first?” he asked, his gaze lingering on Vaelira.
Willem pointed at Axel. “Patch up the old man first.”
Axel grunted but didn’t argue. He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled off one sleeve. A long gash sliced from shoulder to elbow, crusted with dried blood.
Elijah pulled up a chair and began removing items from the box: a hooked needle, black thread, a shallow metal bowl, and a bottle of clear alcohol.
He poured the alcohol over Axel’s arm. The man let out a low grunt, his jaw tight with pain as Elijah began cleaning out the wound.
He cleaned the needle the same way, before threading it and beginning to stitch the skin.
Willem caught Vaelira’s gaze. “You okay?”
Vaelira nodded and immediately regretted it as pain seared through her skull. Erryn came over, a candle held in one hand. Vaelira tensed, expecting the deserved hostility. Instead, Erryn spoke quietly. “Look at me.” She moved the candle back and forth, studying Vaelira’s eyes. “Have you vomited?”
“No, but I might.”
“She’s punch drunk,” Willem said.
Erryn nodded. “Looks like it.”
Vaelira frowned. “What’s that?”
“It’s when someone gets hit too hard on the head,” Willem said. “Usually happens to drunkards getting in fights.”
“I am a drunkard that got in a fight.”
Erryn laughed. If Vaelira didn’t feel like she’d been stabbed through the eye, she might have joined her. She managed a faint smile and closed her eyes, grateful for the darkness. “We should report this,” she mumbled, eyes still closed.
“No, we shouldn’t,” Elijah said flatly.
Vaelira’s eyes snapped open. She glared at him, but he didn’t look up from Axel’s arm.
“And why not?” she asked, pushing herself upright. “We were there, we saw the summonings, the relics, the demons. People will have to listen now.”
“They won’t,” he said, tying off the thread. “No one will believe demons were summoned inside a chapel. Many don’t believe they can be summoned inside the city at all.” His tone was bitter. “All it will do is expose you and put you in danger.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Vaelira shoved her chair back and stood. The world shifted sideways, and she had to grip the table for balance.
“Sit,” Erryn said, guiding her back down with a hand on her shoulder. Vaelira didn’t resist.
“Even if the Gods had protected the city once,” Axel said, “anyone with half a lick of sense knows the First Three abandoned us a long time ago. People might listen.”
Elijah dropped the needle into the bowl. “I’ve made myself clear,” he said, turning to them all. “No one is to speak of this beyond these walls. Understood?”
Vaelira opened her mouth, but Erryn squeezed her shoulder.
The pressure was gentle, but the message was clear.
For all his talk of hating his title, of feeling powerless, he’d ordered them to stay silent.
He claimed it was to protect her, but she was starting to find that hard to believe.
It felt like he was protecting the plans he’d made for her, rather than caring about her safety or what she wanted.
And what she wanted was to protect the innocent from this growing threat.
Burying this information was not the right move, but what could she do? The Crown Prince had spoken.
“What do we say about the chapel?” Erryn asked.
“I can’t believe you brought down the whole damned thing,” Willem muttered, glancing at Vaelira.
“Nothing,” Elijah said, wrapping a fresh bandage around Axel’s arm. “We weren’t there. Let rumours spread until one sticks.”
Willem gave Vaelira a tight smile.
She slumped back in her chair, too tired to fight.
Vaelira walked through the empty streets of Old Town, her hood drawn low against a light drizzle, Elijah at her side.
She’d wanted to return alone, but without him the barracks guards would never let her in after curfew.
At least, not without questions. She hated that she’d allowed him to hold this power over her.
It quickly became clear that she wouldn’t have made it far without being stopped. Guards were posted at each corner and patrolled every street. Elijah kept his hood back and his chin high, his face enough to deter any guard from approaching.
They turned down the alley that led to the barracks gate, a glow of torchlight marking the guard post in the distance. Elijah stopped walking. She turned, arms folded tight across her chest. She wasn’t in the mood for whatever apology he was about to offer.
He stepped closer and reached for her face, but she turned away from the touch. He let his hand linger anyway. “I was worried about you,” he whispered.
“I’m fine.”
“What did the summoner mean?” His gaze searched hers. She frowned. “He said you were more than they’d hoped, like they’d been waiting for you.”
Vaelira shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“They weren’t trying to kill you,” he said quietly.
“You sound like you wanted them to.”
Elijah exhaled sharply, then leaned in, pressing his lips to hers.
His scent closed around her, mixed with something sickly-sweet. Her stomach churned and her limbs locked.
“Not here,” she said, looking at the gate, her heart racing for all the wrong reasons.
He moved closer, took her by the shoulders, and pushed her gently against the cold stone wall. “Yes here,” he breathed, his voice rough. His mouth was on her again, harder now, like he was claiming her.
Vaelira’s insides recoiled at the touch. She pushed against his arms, but he didn’t notice, just held her pinned against the hard stone as she braced her palms on his chest, trying to reclaim the distance between them.
He misread the gesture, sliding his hand to her waist. She pushed again, heat flaring in her chest.
He didn’t stop. His fingers gripped her hip painfully as his lips grazed her jaw. She turned her head away. His mouth moved to her throat, his teeth scraping her skin.
“Elijah, stop,” she whispered. Her voice was thin, her chest tight with panic.
“Vaelira,” he breathed against her skin, pushing his hips hard against her, locking her in place with his body.
She was going to be sick.
In times of great danger, rage is better than fear. Galfri’s voice rang in her mind.
She clung to that voice. Let the anger rise. The anger at him holding her back, at him silencing her. Trying to make her small. Anger at his disregard for her wants, for ignoring common sense in place of his own self-righteous plans.
She shoved her hands against his chest again, harder. There was no way for him to misread the gesture now, yet his teeth were on her ear, his tongue flicking over the bite as if it would make up for the hurt.
She’d had enough of his presumptions. Of his games. Heat flared from her palms.
Elijah stumbled back with a gasp, looking down. Two patches of his shirt were burned through, the skin beneath red, but not broken.
“I said no.” Her voice was iron.
Elijah stared. He stepped back, his eyes roaming from left to right, like he couldn’t face her, or himself.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Lira.”
“Don’t ever call me that,” she snapped. That name wasn’t for him. Would never be for him.
He nodded dumbly and turned towards the gate, moving towards it stiffly.
She let him walk ahead a few paces before following, the heat slowly draining from her palms.