“Three”—cough—“but your pathetic warriors”—cough—“wouldn’t last ten minutes”—cough—“against them.”
Father submerges Zev’s head again.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of healing and shoveling food down my throat and willing it not to come back up. Father calls me into his tent to discuss strategies, though I barely hear a word. Muffled grunts and the agonizing sound of fists striking flesh bombard me.
The warriors are taking turns pummeling Zev again.
Bile rises in my throat, hot and punishing.
“…promise them a third of our food stores?” I catch the end of Father’s sentence. He’s talking about convincing Volca to ally with us. Or at least, that’s what I assume.
“We won’t survive. Our stores are lean enough as they are, and that’s including what Arbinj has sent us,” Sorka responds. “We won’t be getting the third shipment from themnow.”
Muffled laughter.
A shrill blaring in my ears.
Five repeated thuds, and a mocking jeer.
The distinct sound of crunching bone.
I think my heart might give out, it’s racing so fast. Violent streams of acid climb up my throat.
I can’t contain it. My head swings to the side, and I retch all over the floor in great, heaving shudders.
“Princess!” Sorka darts over, sweeping my hair from my face and rubbing a large hand over my back. “Are you ill?”
I wipe my mouth.
Father hasn’t moved. He just regards me with his cold, unreadable stare.
“Are you with child?” Ice is warmer than Father’s voice.
“No.”
“Are you cert—”
“I’m a healer,” I snap. “I think I’d know.”
That’s his concern? Not if I were violated, but if I ended up with child?
Before he can react, I stumble from the tent, heading for the men loitering around Zev.
Vy intercepts me before I can reach them.
“Not here, Princess,” she whispers, pulling me into our tent. “Lay down. You don’t look well. I’ll handle those men.”
She draws the blanket around my shoulders, then disappears through the flap.
It’s dark when I wake—Vy is asleep beside me.
I edge toward the tent flap, easing it open. The night sky is clear, stars twinkling overhead. It clashes with the turmoil in the chest, this gnawing ache that has only grown stronger with every passing day. With every new bruise on my husband’s body.
Zev’s slumped in his chains, asleep, chin tucked against his chest. My heart tightens with concern. Did Vy manage to distract the warriors lined up to use him as a punching bag?
I’ve nearly taken a step into the clearing when I freeze—Father stalks out of his tent, heading toward the wooden platform where Zev is bound. I quickly close the flap, peeking through the slivered opening.
Father’s knees crack as he climbs the platform. Zev doesn’t stir. Father regards him for a moment, then viciously kicks his boot. My husband startles awake, head snapping up. His eyes sharpen quickly, sleep blinked away, when he sees Father standing before him.
