She’d been protecting him from his bond, his monster—fromhimself. His own mind was the equivalent of the Pits, and he’d lost those mental matches too many times. Now even Ariadne feared the beast that lurked beneath his skin.
After all she’d seen him do? After all she’d learned since her return? Azriel couldn’t blame her. Not when he’d nearly killed Kall. Not when he’d gone on a rampage through Waer Province. Not when he’d tried to strangle his own fucking brother.
His sanity teetered on a precipice, and whatever had happened to her by Loren’s hands would only stoke the rage that simmered just beneath the surface.
Still, he needed to know. The guessing only made those images created by the bond worse. Having that secret between them would only cause a greater rift—particularly if it led to Ariadne trying to tear the skin from her bones again.
“What did he do?” Azriel asked the question as carefully and levelly as he could muster.
Ariadne went still. No inhale or exhale. Just…stillness.
Azriel swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Youarestrong, my love. Whatever he did is not due to your weakness, but to his malice. He is a coward who preys upon the fear of others.”
Silence stretched between them, then slowly Ariadne twisted in his arms to curl in against his chest. She stared at a distant place he couldn’t see before saying, “He found me with the book. I had tried to hide it, but he knew…somehow heknew, and he was so angry. He chased me and I could not—”
The words cracked, then broke entirely. She shuddered in his arms and shook her head before continuing, softer now, “The damn dress got in my way. He hit me, and I fell. Then he tried to…but he could not.”
It was as bad as he’d imagined. Bile rose in his throat, and as much as he wanted to skin the bastard himself, he’d much rather watch Ariadne tear him apart. She deserved that much after all Loren had done to her. And he wouldn’t dream of getting in her way. Not when he’d seen what her vengeance looked like.
Yet there was one part he didn’t quite understand. Azriel swept her damp hair back from her face and asked, “What stopped him?”
Ariadne’s response was not what he expected. “Nikolai Jensen.”
He waited a moment to let the name sink in. It never did. “Why would he do such a thing and risk being caught?”
“I am not certain.” A crease formed between her brows.
Relief swept over Azriel at the sight; this was distracting enough to keep her out of her own head. At least for now.
“He said he is not blind to what Loren is doing,” she said. “And he protected me in Algorath—from himandMelia. I do not think Nikolai is our enemy.”
Azriel grunted. “I can’t trust anyone who stands by and watches a tyrant take over.”
“Perhaps he is not.” Ariadne glanced up at him. “Perhaps he is the kind of person we need to befriend.”
Another grunt, though Azriel remained unconvinced.
They sat together for a long time with Azriel wondering just how long they would be like this: a pair, broken yet somehow kept together by the mere closeness of the other. It seemed this was how they sat together all too often these days. Quiet. Contemplative. Lost in their own thoughts and memories.
When Ariadne finally peeled herself away, claiming she was late for training with Madan— “He’d promised to help me learn to fight vampires” —it left Azriel feeling hollow. She cleaned herself up, changed out of her wet clothes, and kissed him goodbye, and Azriel watched as he thought of all the ways he would seek revenge on everyone who’d ever harmed her.
By the time Loren entered the war chamber from the throne room, his military officers were already present. Chairs screeched as each Caersan man stood, backs straight and chins high. Only their eyes remained downcast, daring not to look their King in the eye with the figurative storm cloud brewing around him.
The time to lament his losses was over. Loren had granted himself enough time to center himself so he could reenter the world with his head on straight once more. A King must present himself with the sanity and authority required to inspire others to follow. Failure to do so would undoubtedly result in an army that saw his instabilities as weaknesses.
There would be no rebellion for him to squash.
So Loren strode through the war chamber on steady feet, the King’s Sword his everlasting shadow, who took his place behind his throne as he pivoted to face the officers. He looked them each in the eye before slowly taking his seat. Only when he had settled into the throne at the head of the table did the rest follow suit.
“By now,” Loren said slowly, “you would have all heard of my wife’s…abduction.”
An uneasy shift from the soldiers before him. What had they been saying behind his back? That she left him willingly? Ifthe guards who had been present the night of her escape had any sense whatsoever, they would have kept their mouths shut after Nikolai’s threats to cut out their tongues. The last thing he needed was for anyone to believe he could not control someone as simple as his own wife.
“A gruesome event, to be certain,” said General Trev Wintre, his brown curls lying perfectly across his brow. Mere weeks since his appointment as his top military advisor, and he had found comfort too quickly. “My men have spoken of little else than the dragons they fought during the battle.”
Lifting his lip in a sneer, Loren said, “I would hardly call it a battle. More of an ambush.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Wintre nodded sagely. “I merely wish more soldiers had arrived in a timely manner. Then, perhaps, we would be celebrating a victory over dinner while toasting the Queen.”
