“Oh, but isn’t that what you do? Torturing and killing Veil Worshippers is anhonor, is it not?” Brela grinned as the man’s jaw clenched. “Think of the women who will spread their legs when you tell them of the things you carved into my body. Imagine takingthis”—she pointed to the shard in her chest—“home as a souvenir. The Night Terror, famous Rooke assassin and Veil Worshipper, cut into pieces by you. Think of the glory.”
Brela could almost taste the hunger in the air as he gripped his fist. He growled, low and steady.
She went for the kill. “The last Severinian man who crossed me wanted that glory. You know what I did? I made him watch as I ripped his intestines out through his—“
Grunt lunged, reaching for his sword at the same time. Brela shifted her body, ready to impale herself on the blade once he was close enough. But blinding light filled the wagon. The soldier was jerked back before he even drew his sword, yanked away by a dark figure. She only knew it was Valkip because the obsidian in her skin pulsed as he stepped into the wagon.
Brela leaned back and laughed. Coughed at the pain of hellthorn, and then continued to laugh.
“Four hells, Brela,” he snapped. She somewhat expected him to say something about her antagonizing the soldier, but she also figured he’d know it was useless. No, that snap was about something different. Maybe the reek of the wagon since no one had cleaned her vomit from the corner, but as her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized he was staring at her hands. “Did you break your wrist trying to get out of those chains?”
She snorted. “I have a bleeding gash in my shoulder, bruises on my entire body, and my clothes are ripped and covered in vomit, but the wrist is what makes you hesitate?” He clenched his jaw but her attention was already at the dark-haired man standing at the doors of the wagon, his face pale. She purred. “Hello, Prince Serill of Severina. I’d bow, but Valkip isn’t standing behind me to enjoy the view.”
The prince visibly swallowed, but his face gained a little color at her words.
Valkip only glared at her. “He’s the only healer with us. Don’t make me regret this.”
“Regret letting you heal me just so you can torture me again?” she growled, watching Serill as he cautiously approached her. “Oh, you Severinians have no idea how to do this, do you? You’re supposed to torture me until I have a single breath left before you bring me back to life with your healers.”
Surprisingly, Serill was the one to answer. More surprisingly, his words were laced with the firmness of a prince… and kindness. “We aren’t trying to torture you. You seem to be the one inflicting the most pain on yourself.” He sighed once he stood a step away from her, Valkip watching closely, and lifted his hands. “Now, can I please help?”
Brela studied him for a moment, debating which snarky response she’d throw in his face, but the eyes that watched her softened something inside her chest. Or maybe it was the slight glimmer of hope that if she got him on her side, she’d find a way out of this hell.
“Fine,” she snapped. Valkip snorted in surprise, ignoring the glare Brela shot his direction. No, he was ignoring the glareSerillshot at him. Things might just get interesting, if she could play it right. Brela made a show of flinching slightly as Serill’s hands rested over her wrist, forcing her words to tremble. “What does the king want with me?”
“I don’t know.” His gaze flicked to hers, a slight smirk on his face revealing not the face of a naïve prince, but an incredibly clever one. One who saw everything and knew how to play the game against her. “Nice try with the voice. Almost got me with the flinch, though.”
Brela huffed. “Well, shit.”
The prince was smarter than she gave him credit.
Serill forced a chuckle as his magic began to work. Brela clamped her mouth together to keep from releasing a hiss of both pain and relief. Neither Farrah’s nor Trellis’s healing magic were as strong as the prince’s, and what was usually a slight tingle felt like stabbing pain as the bones mended and reformed under skin. At least it was fast. Only a forced exhalation came as his hands finally pulled away.
“Is your name really Brela?” he asked. She debated lying for a moment before nodding. “Last name?”
“I don’t know.”
He paused, fingers hovering just out of reach of her face.
“Leave the lip,” Valkip grumbled, his arms folded as he watched them carefully. “I’m sure she bites.”
For sun-blessed senses, Valkip was incredibly thick for not seeing the real reason the prince hesitated. It wasn’t the proximity to her teeth, which, at the moment, she wasn’t planning on using. No, it was the truth that he read in her words.
Brela broke her gaze with the prince, clicked her teeth a few times, and then purred. “Come over here and find out, Valkip.”
The prince had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. “Oh, gods, I was right. You two are going to burn the forest.”
She didn’t tear her eyes from the captain’s blue glare. “There’s still time. You’ve heard what I’m capable of. You’ve seen what I can do—what I did to Gerrart’s home and then to Warley.” She turned to Serill as he mended the cut on her neck. “I think your captain is afraid that I can beat him.”
Serill raised his eyebrow. “He caught your knife.”
Brela could feel Valkip’s shoulders tighten even before she looked at him, waiting to see if she’d reveal the truth. Instead, she held the captain’s gaze as she replied. “I suppose you’re right.”
“How did you get this?” the prince whispered, running his finger along the scar between her neck and shoulder.
“I got it at Gerrart’s house,” she replied.
Serill shrugged as he began healing her shoulder, but this time it was Valkip who perked up. Oh, she should have known that the disaster left at the house would still be bothering him.
