But he still had a shred of honor in his chest. It was honor that helped him keep his mouth from snapping, not the pain he saw in her eyes. Honor that kept the fire in his chest from burning through the cell walls, not the counting he hadn’t stopped since arriving.
The honor of a trained warrior kept him calm.
Not the woman who bore the scars and wounds of a life chained to a cruel man, all so she could survive in a world Cason couldn’t understand.
Honor, not Brela.
Cason stood. “We aren’t going to torture or kill you. Or your friends, if they’re stupid enough to try to rescue you.”
“They’re smart enough to kill me first,” she mumbled, now tracing invisible lines on her pants.
“We’ll see. The King of Severina still has use for you.” He turned and banged on the wagon door, pausing with his hand on the wood. Squeezed his bloodied palm at the conflicting emotions running through him. Swallowed and mumbled just loud enough for her to hear. “One thousand three hundred and seventy-nine.”
“What?”
He didn’t turn around. “Breaths. Since I broke through the trees to now.” He sighed deep. “I countedyourbreaths to stay calm.”
Cason jumped out of the moving wagon without turning to see her face.
17
Conflicted
Bastard.
That word was still ringing through Brela’s head as she was jolted awake. Her head slammed into the wall of the wagon. She blinked and groaned, moving to rub the back of her neck. Her hands didn’t budge from where they hung over her head, manacles rattling as she tried again.
Brela hissed as pain radiated through her wrist, remembering that debacle from the middle of the night. First, she’d tried to use her magic to sink into the shadows. That only resulted in screaming from the hellthorn that still hadn’t left her system, followed by an hour of vomiting from the pain that made her insides feel like they were being melted.
When she finally stopped feeling sick, she’d tried to strangle herself with the long chain, but the damn rattling had alerted Valkip to her plans. He’d attached her manacles directly to the hook in the wagon wall, just barely low enough to allow her to sit with her hands lifted above her head. After she had tried to yank the hook off the wagon, kicking violently at the wood, Valkip had stationed a guard inside to watch her the rest of the night. The captain hadn’t noticed that she had broken her wrist while twisting around, though she doubted he’d care.
That guard snickered as she tried one more time to break free, a yelp of pain escaping before she could bite it back. Brela shot him a glare, but his eyes were closed as he leaned back against the wall. Not asleep, just bored thatshehad fallen asleep and he couldn’t watch her torture herself. If her mouth hadn’t been so dry from vomiting and not having any water all night, she might have spit on him.
It didn’t help that the man had decided to hang some old hellthorn next to the lantern in the wagon just to mock her. Not strong enough to make her sick beyond a headache, but enough to keep her magic from coming back. Superstitious, cruel prick.
The guard’s lingering presence ruined her next, less enjoyable plan of bashing her head on the hook above her. Instead, she leaned back and embraced the constant banging against her back and tailbone as the cart continued along in the mid-afternoon heat. At least, she thought it was mid-afternoon. The little barred window in the door didn’t reveal much, and she’d spent a lot of time unconscious.
A grumble churned her stomach, though not from hunger. That despicable captain had to go and make things so gods-damned confusing. He had counted her breaths—herbreaths—to stay calm, and yet he had still caught her knife. She had helped him save his gods-damned title as captain, and this was how he thanked her? Telling her that she had meant something to him and then leaving her chained and broken while he marched her to a painful death?
Then, that bastard had to go and threaten her friends. Elias and Farrah couldn’t be dumb enough to follow her to rescue her. No, she’d ordered them to kill her first, as long as they could escape. They’d promised.
They would give up tracking her eventually when they discovered they’d never be able to get away safely. At least they knew what Valkip was capable of. It’s probably why she was currently alive, because Elias and Farrah wouldn’t risk getting close when the captain could sniff them out. It’s probably why Brela wouldstillbe alive when they made it to Aelstow, for whatever torture the king had planned for her.
Brela sighed and focused on the guard, clearing the scratch in her throat. “What’s your name?”
The man acknowledged her with a grunt but kept his eyes closed.
“Fine, I’ll just call you Grunt,” she said, studying the soldier. “So, Grunt, have you ever killed a shadow cultist with the sword attached to your hip there?”
The slightest twitch. Oh, it was too easy.
Brela grinned. “No, I figured not. Stuck in Severina with a king who builds an army of men who sit on their asses while Rooke and Anfroy soldiers wet their blades with the blood of Veil Worshippers.”
The guard popped one eye open, settling that deep brown gaze on her. “Shut up.”
“Come over here and I’ll teach you how to use it,” she purred. “Though, swords have never really been my style. I prefer to get close and personal with my victims using knives and daggers.” Brela darted her tongue over her lips, though it was painfully dry over split and swollen skin. “There’s something so…intimateabout watching the life leave a man’s eyes, especially at the hands of a woman.”
His other eye flashed open as the wagon slowed, his glare trained on her. “I have no desire to hear how you pleasure yourself by gutting your victims.”
