Chapter 11 #3
I don’t have the time to react before his boot crushes my hand.
I gasp as he crouches nearer to the stone floor.
Heat spreads from my knuckles to my elbow, blood rushing to my splintered finger bones.
I restrain my shriek to a dangerous growl, aware that should anyone hear me, I might not make it out of this room alive.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I need you to understand our hierarchy here.
” He twists the heel of his boot, driving it further into my hand.
My mouth opens in a silent cry of pain. I try to steady my breathing, though my hand burns.
A glance tells me that blood hasn’t been spilled, so even he knows to keep this scuffle under wraps as best as he can.
I glance at him, at his darkened eyes gleaming down at me with an aggression I hadn’t seen there before.
“I revealed myself to you to avoid your gossip. Swear you won’t tell the prince of my heritage. On your life.”
I huff a few breaths, focusing on anything but the tingling pain in my arm.
If I had more energy here, I could heal myself and beat his ass.
But I don’t sense anything. Not here. Not in the muggy bathing chamber, not while dressed in only a towel, and definitely not when I’m at a significant disadvantage.
“Fine,” I say between breaths. “I won’t tell him.” Even though I’m not sure why this is so important to him. My identity as an elf doesn’t seem to bother the prince. Why would Ronan’s identity matter?
He lifts his boot, satisfied.
Unfortunately for him, I’m not . No one is allowed to pin me to the ground like that.
I twist upward, my vision still fuzzy but not so inhibiting that the shape of his body slinking above me isn’t visible.
My leg swings up and around, locking over his waist before I throw his body to the ground. My damp hair drapes around him in a spindly ivory curtain of wet, shading his pale skin to a sickly gray. I pin him at the wrists with the heels of my hands, digging them into the ground.
He simply laughs.
I increase the pressure. His smile widens.
He’s beyond reason.
Any question I ask him, any answer he gives me, will add fuel to my irritation, so I try another method to shatter the walls of his madness.
“What do you want with Ramiel?” I say through clenched teeth. “Why are you tricking him?”
“I didn’t think you’d care,” he snorts, then winces, but not because of my hold on him. His eyes flit to where one of his wings struggles to straighten underneath his body.
Now I’m the one smirking as I quickly draw one of my hands away. For a second, my hand hovers above the middle joint in the wing, and I witness his glorious, wide-eyed terror before I strike. The sound of cracking bone is muted by the moisture in the air, but it still makes me bristle.
He gasps loudly, then winces. His face is a tight knot of pain.
“I didn’t. Don’t. But now I have the sneaking suspicion he’s not the one pulling the strings. So tell me why, or your other wing’s next.” I raise my hand, and his pupils shrink into little dots. Now we’re talking.
“Spare me,” he squeaks, his eyes squeezing closed. “A fairy without his wings is?—”
“Speak,” I order, pressing my hands into his wrists once more.
He gasps again, regarding me with sadness in his eyes.
“Self-preservation,” he whispers. “Once the crown prince became immune to the suppressant in my elixirs, he finally collapsed under the surge of magic plaguing him.” His head tosses to one side to avoid eye contact.
“As for my servitude toward Ramiel… My worth is decided solely on who I serve, and to my family, it must be a Faundor. Always. If I don’t serve his blood with my life, I’m as good as dead. ”
I squint at him. It’ll take a lot more than his simple words to sway me.
“Why’s that?”
“I just told you.”
Not enough.
I press harder, and he winces again.
“You never fail to live up to your reputation, do you?” Despite the color draining from his face, he sighs.
“Our family can help reduce the burden of magic on humans. It makes us more valuable to them. Xavelor was able to survive this long using magic because of my supplements.” His words flow like an open wound, runny and filled with haste.
His gray face pales. His voice softens, not with emotion but with the intention of conserving air.
The humidity is thicker between us. “He knew I was a fairy from the start, but Ramiel doesn’t.
He only knows I’m here to help him withstand the magic you’re going to teach him, and that is all he needs to know, for now.
” His eyes find mine, and they’re swirling with an unwavering malice I imagine I’m mirroring. “Satisfied?”
My hands relax, but I still keep him pinned beneath me. “Hardly. Why not tell him? Unless there’s something else you’re hiding. It had better be worth your breaking in and pinning me to the floor.”
He laughs, but this time it sounds a bit more human.
A bit more nervous . The power begins to leak away, as though he’s losing control over his fairy form.
I squint at him, looking for any tells. Why would a fairy’s default be a human persona?
Unless he possesses some sort of tainted magic that inhibits his ability to keep his pure form…
A snarl works its way into my throat. He’s hiding too much.
I tighten my grip once more. “Promise me one thing, on the condition I don’t go spreading your identity around.”
His eyes brighten at this, though I’m unsure why. He’d seemed to ardently believe he had the upper hand mere seconds ago, yet now he waits patiently for me to name my price.
“Leave me out of your schemes,” I snap. “Take your foul magic out of me.”
He sighs exaggeratedly, and for a second, I think of snapping his other wing.
“It will pass. Over time, you will gradually regain your ears, feet, and other elven traits. Until then, you won’t be able to use magic without draining yourself completely.
And just so you know,” he says, his lips daring to tug upwards, “Ramiel asked me for the elixirs. And to keep our heads on straight, it wasn’t my idea to hide your identity.
Not that it’s a bad idea. I simply take credit where it is due. That’s all.”
“Enough lies,” I scoff, pushing off the ground. I turn to the stool where my clothes sit waiting for me. His words mean nothing to me now. Any final jabs he makes won’t work.
“I can see why you’re dying your hair. Your eyes are going to be a problem, though,” he calls after me.
I growl my response.
“A word of warning. Try not to switch between five different emotions every second. It’ll give you away to everyone in the castle.”
When I flip around, he’s gone. I’m not sure how, since he should be crippled with a broken wing. Maybe the mist conceals him. I don’t care.
I turn, gather the training clothes and shoes, wrap the dagger snugly between the folds of fabric, and storm from the bathing room.