Riven spat blood onto the gravel. “Then fucking shoot me.”
Kieran tilted his head slightly, almost like he was amused.
And then he fired again.
Pain tore through Riven’s thigh, raw and white-hot and blinding. The world dropped out beneath him. His scream was guttural, involuntary, ripped from his chest as he dropped to the ground. He clutched at his leg, breath coming in heaving gasps as fire licked up his nerves. Blood soaked through his jeans in hot pulses, soaking the fabric and pooling around his fingers.
His vision swam. He curled onto his side, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might crack, willing himself not to pass out.
The agony had a shape and a sound. It roared.
“I told you,” Kieran said, stepping closer. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
Riven could barely hear him over the thudding of his own heart. His leg was useless. It felt detached, foreign. He couldn’t move it. Could barely breathe.
“Enough,” Lareth’s voice snapped from behind.
Kieran didn’t immediately respond. Just looked down at Riven like he was already dead.
“I said enough,” Lareth said again, more forcefully.
Finally, Kieran shrugged and lowered the gun. “He’ll live,” he said. “Unfortunately.”
Lareth crouched beside Riven, his expression hard to read. “You picked a bad time to play hero. But I suppose I should’ve expected that from one of Virellien’s little monsters.”
Riven’s mouth was dry. “If you think they’re coming for me, you’re even dumber than you look,” he rasped. “They don’t send rescue parties for broken tools.”
Lareth studied him for a moment, then stood. “We’ll see. Get him up. Patch him. I’m not explaining a corpse.”
Two of the crew moved forward. Riven tried to fight them, but the pain overwhelmed him. His limbs didn’t listen. The world was spinning. Still, he refused to cry out again, even whenthey hauled him upright and the damaged leg screamed like it was being torn off.
They dragged him across the gravel, guns pressed into his side as if he still posed a threat. Maybe he did. He was still alive, after all.
Chapter 45
The first time Riven surfaced, it was only halfway.
The pressure in his leg sharp enough to draw a broken sound from his throat. Hands touched him—firm, efficient. Someone was wrapping his thigh, pressing something cool and wet into the wound. The touch didn’t feel cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. Indifferent. Clinical. Just part of a job being done.
He tried to say something, but no words came. The black pulled him under again before he could see a face.
The second time, the fog was thinner. He could breathe again, though every inhale felt like it scraped against the inside of his skull. He blinked blearily up at a ceiling—cracked plaster and water stains, a light fixture with only one flickering bulb left.
There was a bed beneath him. Real sheets. Worn, faded. The smell of dust was thick in the air.
He turned his head slightly, vision catching on the shape of something painted on the wall: a unicorn. Blue and silver, glittering with chips of long-dried paint. It looked like it was meant for a child’s room once, before years of neglect claimed it.
The absurdity of it lingered in his mind as he sunk back under.
The third time, he didn’t open his eyes at all.
He couldn’t. His limbs wouldn’t move. His body felt nailed in place, heavy and slack. But he was aware. Dimly. Enough to feel the presence of others in the room, to hear the murmur of voices.
They weren’t speaking to him.
“…just lucky the bullet didn’t go through the artery,” one voice was saying. Cool, crisp, irritated.
“You’re being dramatic,” a second voice replied—lazier, edged with amusement. “He’ll live.”
