CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
Destonne paced back and forth, hauling breath through his nose and out his mouth until the thorns retracted beneath his flesh with a squelch of mangled skin. Emmery watched in both terror and fascination.
She’d seen him bleeding before. Seen blood dripping down his fingers and temples, but this—gods, she’d never predicted this. Never seen anything like it.
Whatever kind of twisted magic or curse this was.
Destonne stalked back to the boulder, his eyes wide, the whites of them a halo around the depthless black. Emmery couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t decipher his thoughts or feelings, and she didn’t know what to say. But she owed him an explanation.
“I didn’t … I was—” she babbled. Her body stretched distantly from her consciousness. “I thought I c-could—I thought I could do it.”
Her heart stuttered as he dropped to his knees in front of her. His brows creased as he took her hand that stung something fierce, and examined the dozen black quills the length of her little finger, tipped in orange arrowed barbs, embedded in her palm.
“I didn’t think you would drown yourself just because I was late.” A foreign quiver threaded his voice through the humour.
Emmery wheezed a laugh, though the world tilted and she could barely focus on Destonne’s face. The metallic tang of her blood made her stomach churn and saliva flooded her mouth. “You weren’t late. You stood me up.”
“Late. I was late. I’d never stand you up.
I remember every one of your threats to light me on fire and I wouldn’t dare test them.
” Destonne tilted her hand and breathed something like a curse.
“We need to remove these or your hand will swell to twice its size. Though it would be satisfying to slap me with, I don’t think you want that. ”
Bile climbed her throat as Emmery pinched a quill with blood-slickened fingers and pulled.
Pain streaked like lightning, stole all the breath from her lungs, and she sucked air through the spaces between her teeth.
She gasped but it wasn’t enough as her chest convulsed like that day at Reize’s cottage.
Frustration heated her cheeks as she yanked again and a small whine squeaked out. “It won’t come out. I can’t do it.”
Destonne shifted her over on the boulder to make room for himself, and tucked her legs over his lap.
His body heat bled into her. Emmery leaned against his shoulder, not realizing her teeth chattered, maybe from shock or pain or the cold night air.
He wrapped an arm around her and drew her closer.
She sank into him, needing the embrace more than she would admit.
His proximity was surprisingly not unpleasant.
In fact leaning into Destonne felt, of all things, comforting.
Aera helped herself to the boulder as well, crawled into Emmery’s lap, and glanced between the two, a glimmer in her amber stare.
Pinching the first quill between two fingers, Destonne caught Emmery’s eye.
“Breathe with me?” The soft, soothing hum of his voice did nothing to calm her quaking insides.
The barbs felt attached to her nerves, something integral, and any tug would wind her veins into a yarn ball, and unravel her from inside.
Emmery pulled a shaky breath into her lungs.
“And out,” he prompted.
As she exhaled, Destonne yanked the quill out. Emmery braced her forehead against his shoulder and spouted a vile curse into his damp shirt.
“That’s one. Only”—he did a quick count—“seven more to go.”
“Fuck,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “You need to distract me from the pain.”
“How exactly would you like me to do that?” He turned his head, his breath soft on her cheek. “I offer a variety of services.”
Pain must have overshadowed her thoughts because his obnoxious innuendo didn’t even bother her. “Tell me a story.”
“What sort of story?”
Emmery whimpered as he yanked another quill free and a line of blood trickled down her wrist. Destonne’s thumb smoothed over the wound, as if he could absorb the pain.
“Anything,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Just keep talking. We both know how much you love the sound of your own voice.”
He chuckled softly, then mulled over the request. “Let me tell you about my brother.” He cleared his throat and started, “He was an avid lover of sweets: tarts, pies, pastries, you name it. But my father didn’t allow my brother to eat them.
He would often watch others enjoy while his plate was empty.
So, I would sneak him desserts right out from under my father’s nose. ”
Destonne’s nimble hands worked another quill free, and he smoothed the biting sting with the pad of his thumb, held it until the ache ebbed and Emmery relaxed.
She wondered if he wished someone would do the same for him, or if anybody ever had.
If he had someone to kiss his wounds when that wretched crown had melded with him.
If anyone had even looked twice as he faced that pain.
Had he been alone? Had he been frightened the first time? It didn’t seem like something a person would willingly agree to unless the exchange was worth it and, knowing Destonne, it likely had been.
He cleared his throat and yanked her from her thoughts.
“From a young age, I attended a school in the north, so I rarely saw my mum and brother, other than special occasions. At this one ball my father informed me I would be sent away, but without a return date.” He nodded at his fingers clamped around a nasty, thick barb. “Ready?”
Emmery murmured into his shoulder, “Do it quickly.” As he wrenched the quill free, she whimpered, but once she unclenched her jaw, she urged, “Keep going.”
“There were trays and trays of sweets at this ball. Some ridiculous theme my father dreamed up with one of the rich merchants. Because of my father’s implication of my permanent leave, it gave me an excuse to make this trip memorable. So I did.”
Destonne huffed a laugh as if spiting his father brought unparalleled joy. Emmery’s lips curled into a smile.
“I stole a few trays that night,” he said, “and hid in a coat closet with my brother. He took it upon himself to consume every single thing since he knew I’ve never been one for sweets. So, I watched him eat three platters. Quite impressive for someone so small.”
With a jerk of his hand, another two quills dislodged from Emmery’s palm. She bit down on her lip and turned her head so she could gaze up at him. This close, she noted a tiny, aged scar on his eyebrow and stubble on his usually clean-shaven jaw. “I’m assuming this story has more to it.”
“Let’s just say, things were fine until he stepped out onto the dance floor.
He was only eight years old, set up to dance with this young girl from Delmira, a sweet little thing, anxious to be on the ballroom floor for the first time.
I don’t know if it was the nerves of his first dance, the pastries sitting heavy in his belly, or just the excitement of it all, but my brother was only a minute in when he vomited down the front of her dress. ”
Emmery’s jaw slackened. “He didn’t. That poor girl!”
“It drew quite a ruckus from the crowd.” Destonne removed another quill and his thumb clamped down to soothe the sting.
“Understandably she left in tears. I managed to catch her in the hall and slipped her a handful of slate to cover the dress's cost, but there was nothing I could do for the humiliation. Money can’t buy a new reputation. Trust me, I’ve tried,” he said, the lightness back in his tone.
“What’s your brother’s name?” she asked. “Why haven’t I met him?”
“His name was Arran.” Destonne swept a rogue, water-stretched curl from his face. “He passed away.”
Emmery tore her eyes from the last quill as Destonne yanked it from her hand. She barely felt it, too consumed by what to say after he’d shared not only a story about his beloved family member, but a memory that stirred grief. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It was a long time ago,” he said, an unmatched heaviness in his voice, though his face remained a mask of carefully contained emotion.
“When he was born, his lungs and heart didn’t develop properly.
It was why my father didn’t allow him to have a normal childhood, but the way I saw it, his health had always been poor, so why not let him enjoy.
He lived longer than we thought he would.
” He stared thoughtfully at Emmery’s palm, like he could read her future in the wounds.
“He was only my half brother. But I cared deeply for him.”
“How old was he?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
“Nine.”
Emmery’s stomach sank. Even Maela was older before her death.
Destonne ran his thumb over the series of puncture wounds resembling swelling red bullseyes. “It’s silly, but I still miss him,” he said softly.
Emmery’s skin warmed as he skimmed his fingers down her hand to her wrist, the gesture familiar, common, a stark contrast to how they’d danced around each other these past few days and avoided whatever was forming in the air between them.
But now they leaned into one another as if there was more than words to be exchanged.
“It’s not silly,” Emmery breathed.
“I tell myself he’s in a better place,” Destonne continued. “He was in tremendous pain from the fluid filling his lungs. The healers would have to drain it. How he managed such agony, I’ll never know.”
She winced as she rubbed at her blood-slickened chest. To be drowned by your own lungs was a terribly cruel thing and why the gods would subject a young boy to such a fate was always hard to understand. How they chose who would bear such a burden.
“You face your fair share of pain.” Emmery nodded at the ragged skin on his chest which seemed to be healing at a startling speed.
Destonne pulled away like she’d said something wrong, perhaps not wanting to acknowledge her observation or the hint of compassion laced within it. He wrapped his torso in the garment and buttoned what remained of the shirt. “We should get you to a healer,” he said, voice low.