Someone touched her hair, and Kailia jerked to the side, crawling away. Eyes wide, they fell on Wren, who was staring at her, palms up placatingly.
“Don’t touch her,” Razik said, crouching beside the female. “Cethin will handle it once he’s done.”
Once he’s done.
She twisted around, finding the king with a hand raised and fist clenched, the two figures on the ground several feet away. They were clutching at their chests, muffled, agonized moans sounding.
“Leave one alive for questioning, Cethin!” Tybalt barked from where he stood at his side.
“We’ll find another,” Cethin responded, his tone nothing but icy death as the two figures continued to writhe in torment.
Razik had pulled Wren into his chest, her face buried there, but Kailia watched. Watched as the king tortured and took and drug out their deaths that she was certain could have been over in seconds.
Finally, the moans fell silent. Kailia had wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the tender flesh at her middle. The charred skin on her face where a hand had covered her mouth. There was a dagger in her hand, and she had no idea when she’dgrabbed that from the sheath at her side. Thank the gods she hadn’t stabbed Wren.
Cethin lowered to a crouch before her, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he noted the puddle of vomit before his still glowing eyes slid over her.
“Razik will bring your bow. We’re going home,” he said, a hard edge to his tone. “I have to touch you, but you can keep that dagger in your hand while I do. Okay?”
She only nodded, and seconds later, they were in the same positions on the floor of their bedchambers.
“What happened to the serpent?” she asked.
Cethin’s eyes were raking over her again as he answered, “It slumbers once more.”
“What’s all over you?”
And how had she missed the splatters of gold all over his clothes, his hands, his face?
“The serpent’s blood,” he answered, reaching for her.
Instinctively, she raised the dagger, keeping it between them. He paused for only a moment, giving her a small, tight smile before he continued his movement, fingers brushing across her brow and pushing back stray hair.
“You have burns,” he ground out.
Her eyes dropped to her lap, spying small splatters of bile on her dress. That was…just great.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can move through smoke and ashes, but fire still…”
He nodded. “I’ll have Niara send up a salve.”
“That’s not necessary. They’ll heal quickly enough,” she answered, struggling to her feet.
Cethin followed, staying close. “I’ll still send for it.”
“Great,” she muttered. “I’m going to clean up.”
Avoiding a bath because of the burns, she used a cloth to wash herself as best she could. She rinsed her mouth and cleaned her teeth, feeling the phantom touches the entire time.
When she emerged, Cethin did the same, leaving her in the bedchamber. She found a glass jar of balm, along with a note from Niara with instructions, and she sighed, applying it to her stomach and her cheeks where the male’s fingers had dug in.
She was nestled under the covers when Cethin returned in those loose linen pants and sans shirt, his moon Mark visible on his chest atop the other Mark.
Rounding the bed, he pulled back the blankets.
She didn’t have it in her to lift her head as she murmured, “What are you doing?”
“Monitoring my wife,” he answered.
