I have to do everything I can to break this curse.
If there’s any light in my path, it’s that Antony has agreed to help me.
Oh, I’m certain his distrust will re-surge along the way. Given what he told me about his history, mistrust and suspicion have been baked into his blood. He won’t move past that easily, but he’s listening, and it’s a first step.
As my sobs finally subside, I fix the smallest sliver of hope firmly within my mind.
Just as I used to take comfort from my father’s promises, now I attempt to take comfort in the bed at my back and the blanket around me, even if I’m grimy from seawater, I smell like ash, and my hair is tangled from the wind.
With some difficulty, I pull off my boots and my long pants and unclip my soft corset, sliding all of them off beneath the blanket, leaving my tunic and short bloomers in place before I snuggle back under the bedding.
I stop fighting my exhaustion, close my eyes, and breathe deeply, determined to cling to these few momentsof peace.
What feels like mere seconds later, I awake to the blanket tugging away from my face and a sudden flood of starlight beaming across my eyes.
I must have turned onto my back, and the cold night air suddenly stings my cheeks and neck.
Cracking open my heavy eyelids, I try to force myself awake. “Anto?—”
My eyes fly wide.
A man I don’t recognize leans over me, a sneer on his lips.
Steel glints at the edge of my vision, and a blade plunges toward my neck.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thyra
Idon’t have time to think.
My left arm shoots upward, my hand closing around my attacker’s wrist, a desperate defensive move as I try to halt the oncoming blade.
I have a split second to assess my situation. I must have loosened the blanket during my sleep, and by pulling it off my face and neck, my attacker opened my comforting cocoon even further. Both of my arms are free. My legs are only lightly wrapped. The chain attached to my right hand is draped across my left shoulder and my neck, not trapped under my left arm.
My attacker stands beside the bed, dressed in black, but his face is uncovered. I register a short beard and pale eyes, and dull black hair.
He’s a lowborn.
It takes me a heartbeat to register all of this, to scream at myself to fight for my life, a moment during which his arm strains against mine, the blade’s tip suspended only an inch above my neck.
Desperately, I jab my right hand upward, my fingers clawed, aiming for his left eye, ready to gouge like hell.
He’s quick, knocking my oncoming hand aside with his free hand before ramming that fist down hard against my throat.
The punch makes me choke and gasp for breath.
I nearly lose hold of his blade arm.
The dagger descends further, its tip now scraping my skin, and it’s all I can do to focus all of my strength into keeping it at bay.
He uses my distraction, following up the throat punch by wrapping his left hand around the side of my throat, squeezing hard, his thumb against my larynx.
Now he’s leaning fully forward over me, his dagger scraping one side of my neck, while his other hand throttles me.
It’s only been seconds. One quick move after another.
His weapon’s tip stings my neck, and I anticipate he’ll draw back in a second, release his downward pressure so suddenly that my left arm will spring forward and I won’t be able to stop the next strike.
