Blood is currency. Blood is status and freedom. Blood is an access point to magic, to power. Which means what’s pumping through my veins is priceless. It made sense that Wistan and the blood brokers would keep me alive, that they’d use Ren to broker my cooperation. Even when it was clear that one of our own had betrayed us, I figured it was for the same motivations: money, power, a chance to leave The Scorch behind. But the attack on The Horde has me looking past all of that and wondering if there’s more to it, something I haven’t considered, something I missed?
Worry flutters back and forth as I think about Enslee and the others. Are they safe? Will I ever make it back to them? I’ve never had the kind of patience something like the long game requires. I prefer a more direct approach. Something tries to kill you and you kill it instead. I’m not cut out for cat and mouse games, especially when I can’t tell if I’m the cat or the mouse.
I jerk awake with a groan. I must have dozed off, or passed out if the cold pool of blood I’m lying in is any indication. I’m freezing and, fuck, am I sore. For some reason, that makes me want to laugh, but I quickly swallow down the urge. My hands are still bound behind my back, and my arms are now numb. I try to shift my clothing around so it can protect more of my skin from the frigid nip of the stone beneath me, but I only seem to make things worse.
I can imagine Ren watching me right now and cracking up. She’d tell me I look like some sand grub trying to wiggle away from a bird only to be snatched up by a snake. She wouldn’t be wrong either. I huff out a laugh at that and stop trying to rearrange my pitiful outfit when my top hikes up so high that the bottom swell of my boobs are peeking out, and the tear in my skirt threatens to rip all the way through the last few inches still managing to hang on by mere threads.
Now I just look like a sand grub with tits.
It’s not funny. I know it’s not, and yet I’m actively fighting off a giggle. My head swims and I realize that maybe I’ve officially lost it.
I survived Wistan only to be bested by an elevator.
I do laugh this time and then wince because it makes everything hurt.
Why the bloody fuck do I feel drunk?
Maybe crazy isn’t so bad if it comes with this sweet buzz.
Something sets off my internal alarms, and I realize I’m no longer alone in this room. I have no idea how long they’ve been there watching me, but someone’s definitely there.
Severalsomeonesif my instincts are right.
Discreetly, I draw in a deep inhale, hoping to scent my new company. But all I can smell is the puddle of blood I’m lying in.
I wait.
Something I’ve gotten very good at in the past few months—my Flight would be so proud.
The air around me starts to feel more and more oppressive, and the king’s face appears front and center in my mind. I picture his regal features and wonder if the natural charm he always seems to exude via vid screen will be absent as he scowls down at me in my cell. Will he question me first, or will he do what his sons should have done when we first met—kill me with zero remorse or hesitation?
Will King Noctis be unnerved when he sees my face and finds pieces of my father staring back at him, or will it be just as easy to end me as it was to end his best friend?
The darkness is quiet and unnerving all around me. I watch it expectantly, but nothing happens. Just when I start to think my head wound might be messing with me, a large figure finally separates from the gloom and casually walks toward the front wall of my glimmering cage. It’s not the Noctis I thought it would be.
“I figured you’d be wings deep in canapés and cunt by now. Don’t you have people to handle this sort of thing for you?” I ask, internally high-fiving myself.
Canapés and cunt…good one.
“Come now, Princess, must you be so crass?”
“Princess Crass does have a nice ring to it,” I admit. “But, alas, the title is incorrect.”
“Ah yes, my apologies. It should beScionessEver Tenebrae, unclaimed daughter of the fallen Syphon king.”
I would roll my eyes at the posh intonation he’s laying on a little thick, but my head hurts entirely too much, and it’s creating an irrational worry that my eyes will get stuck facing the wrong direction. I already have the Frilled Lizard thing to contend with if I ever make it back to my Flight; no need to add backward eyes to the mix.
“Wrong again,” I counter with my own snooty affect. “My father is dead, and like you said, I am unclaimed. Therefore, I have no title. So you can fuck right off with all that bullshit…respectfully, of course, Your Highness.”
“We’ll know soon enough exactly who and what you are. I’m here to verify your claims,” he tells me, and it almost sounds like a threat.
“Oh goody,” I snark in return.
Lorn Noctis steps fully out of the shadows, his black scale armor noticeably absent. In its place are fitted white pants that hug him in all the right places, and a matching top that looks expertly tailored to highlight every plane and curve of his frame. The collar of his shirt is stiff and high, stopping just shy of his sharp jaw. Some kind of sparkling white embroidery licks up the chest and across the broad structured shoulders of the shirt before plunging down the cape that drapes majestically down his back.
What he’s wearing probably costs more than every drop of blood in my body. He looks rigid and unyielding, the white of his clothing matching the exact shade of his hair perfectly. His mere presence is magnificent, formidable, and I can’t help but wonder if the heir ever gets to unwind and just let go.
Maybe if he gets close enough, my buzz will jump to him. Then we can both laugh about grubs with tits and undefeated elevators.
