He takes another step back, and then onemore, demonstrating that it only takes three paces for the chain to pull taut between us.
“If its metal teeth are triggered, it will saw through your limb,” he says. “It can’t be stopped. Not so bad if you only lose a hand, but I’d advise you not to do anything that might prompt me to put it around your throat.”
I’m frozen at his threat, the blood draining from my face.
“It’s called a ruby circlet because of the blood it spills,” he continues, and then it seems he’s finished threatening me because he falls silent, his face utterly blank.
Only moments ago, my body was alive with heat, but now an icy chill has fallen over me.
Until this moment, I had a sense of calm because, despite the danger around me, no real harm had come to me.
What an illusion.
I will never be safe here.
Never.
A hollow forms in my heart.
I don’t try to shake it off. I tell myself it’s important. This hollow reminds me I’m alone and my survival is up to me.
Unbidden comes the memory of whispers…
You will fight them. Rip and tear at their hearts. You must destroy them before they can destroy you.
I will fight when I need to. The hardest part will be deciding when that is. When I should sway and bend, or when I must snap back with everything I’ve got.
It’s possible Antony was right: My promise not to fight him could end up being false after all.
If I have to defend myself, I will.
Without taking his eyes off me, Antony quietly raises his right hand and forms a fist.
I brace for the strike that will confirm how he intends to treat me from this moment on, the punch that will shatter myvow to obey him, because there’s no fucking way I’ll meekly take a beating.
Instead, he thumps his own chest, right where the leather strap is the widest over his heart.
It’s a vicious hit, and thethudof his hand on his chest is loud in the fraught silence.
It’s the same action he took when we flew through the bloodlands.
I have no idea why he would strike himself like this.
In battle, it appeared as if he was demonstrating his strength, beating his chest at his enemies, but it’s a curious move in this environment.
His face pales, and I’m confused by the tightening of his features, as if he’s caused himself pain.
“My armor,” he says to Victor through visibly gritted teeth. “Now.”
His brother seems even more wary of him, hanging back for a second before he sets to work, slipping the new chest plates into place, covering Antony’s broad torso, helping him slide the arm coverings back into place, and handing him a new helmet.
The metal slides over Antony’s forehead, then his cheeks, lips, and jaw.
No longer can I see his brutal smile.
All I have are his savage, green eyes.
Is his anger caged now?
