I drop the spoon.
“Did—did anyone come in?”
She shakes her head. “Sork—the general came to check on you a few times, but he didn’t enter the tent.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Vykiss.”
“Vy. Please.” Her smile is tentative.
I bite my lip, flicking my gaze toward her. “Vy, did I … say anything while I was asleep?”
She looks away, her face flaring a damning shade of pink.
“No, Princess.”
“Vy.”
Her lips press together. “At first, it was just sounds. You were panicked. Afraid, maybe? You kept saying no. Then, you were quiet for some time. I might’ve dozed off. But then, um …” She averts her gaze. “You kept saying Zev. Loudly.”
It’s my turn to flush.
“This doesn’t leave the tent,” I say, voice firm. “Please.”
Vy nods quickly. “Of course, Princess.”
With my hunger sated, my power again thrums inside me. The food soothed something primal. But nothing can ease the ache in my chest.
My feet are unsteady as I rise. Vy hands me a blue tunic—hers, I assume.
Sunlight punishes me as I exit the tent, blinding me for several heartbeats.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.
When they finally do, I wish I had actually gone blind.
Zev is still chained to the platform directly across from my tent, exactly where I last saw him.
But he’s unrecognizable.
His face is a mess of angry, purple bruises and jagged, open cuts. Both eyes are swollen, though one is completely shut. His open eye is fixed on me, though I’m too far to read the emotion that passes through it. His shoulders drop slightly when he sees me.
His dark hair is matted against his forehead with what I know is blood. My gaze drags downward—his shirt has been cut away, but instead of any fabric, he wears evidence of a brutal beating. Every inch of his tanned skin is mottled with bruises—some red and fresh, others yellowing and faded.
I wish that was the worst of it.
Someone took a blade to him and carved thick, straight lines across the top of his chest in a neat, macabre row. A swathe of skin across his left flank is an unnatural black—rotting and leathery. An ice burn. Around the edges, his skin has paled to a sickly bluish-gray, ringed with bruises.
My husband slumps forward in his chains, shoulders bearing the bulk of his weight.
My eyes burn.
Unbidden, my feet carry me across the campsite toward him. He watches me, his face stoic, though I’m not sure his battered visage can manage any other expression.
Ten more steps, and I’ll reach him. My palms glow at my sides.
I need to—
“Princess!”
