“I’m here.” That was definitely her voice. Gods, no. Please. He thought he remembered seeing her in the palace. Like a nightmare come to life. But if it was real, then… what the fuck had happened?
He’d fallen. Had someone carried him? He remembered the ice-cold water. The shock. Trying not to breathe. And then, nothing. Was he still in the palace? “Where…?”
“We’re in a safe house.” Nim’s voice, trying to be reassuring.
No! He couldn’t be. They couldn’t. What had they done? “No!” He couldn’t make his voice any louder. They had to listen.
“Shh, shh.” She stroked his hair.
Couldn’t she see that it was urgent? He had to get up. He tried to get his cramping muscles to move. Tried to make them understand. “We left her.”
Nim tried to soothe him. “Keely’s here; she’s okay.”
Her words made him even more frantic. He had to get up. Had to convince them. No one understood. Gods. What had he done?
Then Rafe was there with a mug, something to drink. Yes. Then his voice would work. Then he would explain.
But instead he felt his ability to fight drain away. His eyes were so very heavy. He tried to push himself back up, but his muscles were too weak. His eyes closed, and he slipped into darkness.
Strange dreams came and went. He opened his eyes and saw Nim kissing Tris.
That couldn’t be right. He closed them again.
Something jostled him, and his wounds burned. His body was on fire. He groaned and shifted his legs. Why was it so dark? And cold. He shivered restlessly, waves of heat and cold shuddering through him. Nim poured something cool into his mouth. And he was gone again.
He came back to consciousness slowly, aware of the sounds of muffled activity. Camp sounds. A woman’s voice said something, and deep voices chuckled.
He forced his eyes open and looked around. He was in a tent, the kind they’d used on campaign, wrapped in a bedroll.
He stretched his legs and arms gently, gingerly circled his shoulders and shuffled his wings against the blanket. Everything worked. The hot, shivery fever seemed to have faded. He had to get up. Find out where he was. Get back to the palace. Fuck. How long had he been out?
He pushed the blanket back and sat up. Too quickly. The sides of his vision went black as the world spun, and he had to drop his head and breathe deeply to avoid passing out.
The tent flap lifted, a firm male hand landed on his shoulder, and a soothing freshness flowed over him, like a soft breeze on a summer’s day. “Take a minute.”
He turned his head to see Rafe beside him. Supporting him. He’d been alone for so long that he didn’t know what to say. A strange feeling of grief flowed over him, and he shook his head, at a loss.
Rafe seemed to understand. He dipped his chin briefly and then stood and stuck his head through the tent flap. “Nim! He’s awake.”
“My sister’s here?” His voice hardly worked anymore.
“What do you remember?”
Before he could reply, Nim was there. She looked tired, thinner than he remembered, with dark rings under her eyes.
She threw herself into his arms, and he only just managed to catch her. His heart broke as he felt her sob, her small body quivering against his chest as if she was a young girl again. His baby sister, and he’d put her in so much danger.
Then the tent flap lifted again, and Tristan was there, gently prying Nim away, his voice a low rumble. “Here, sweetheart. Give him some space.”
He expected her to say something tart to Tris. Slap him maybe.
But instead she curled her body into Tristan’s lap as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.
And was that a hickey on her neck?
What the actual fuck?
Nim lifted her tear-streaked face and glared. Not at Tristan, no, at him. Had he said it aloud? Maybe.
