Page 41 of Ravenrose

“I’m going to release your hands. Don’t move,” I tell her, bending slightly, waiting for her to acknowledge before I reach for her.

Despite having her voice back, her chin dips in a subtle nod.

I lift her hands, feeling her tense at my touch. I pull the key from my pocket, but hesitate, holding it inches from its lock while I think.

Muttering under my breath, I drop her hands, wrapping my palm around one of her wrists instead. Despite the warmth from my hand, she shivers at the touch. I hold firm, speaking low and quick, the words in a language that is very much not the common tongue. I’ve nearly finished when a searing heat scorches the skin beneath my palm. The princess goes rigid, biting down hard on her lip to contain her scream.

That done, I release her wrist in favor of her hands, this time sliding the key into the cuffs, unlocking them without further hesitation.

I slip the cuffs off, freezing when I catch sight of the bloody mess underneath. The stubborn little thing has nearly rubbed her skin raw in a misguided attempt at freedom. Stiffly she tugs her arms free of my grip, wrapping them tightly around herself while I step back into her line of sight.

“What’s your name?” I ask her, unable to remember the name of Sitara’s princess—that is, if I ever bothered to learn it.

She doesn’t answer me, despite having the ability to with the gag gone, and her eyes avoid mine. I study her carefully, watching as she tracks my blade back to the sheath at my waist.

Satisfied it’s put away, she turns her attention to her wrists. They’re bruised and bleeding, but that’s not the only thing different about them. A dark rune now stains the skin just inside her left wrist. She rubs it, concern etching into her brows when the ink doesn’t budge. She glances up at me, a look of horror on her face, unsure of what I’ve done and silently demanding an explanation.

She doesn’t get one.

“I don’t have time for this,” I grumble, turning to inspect the state of the tent and moving to collect any weapons I might have left lying around.

It’s dark, so I take the time to light a couple of candles.

The whole time, the princess remains pressed up against the pole as if still tied there by some invisible force.

“There’s food. Here.” I point to the small table she may not have been able to see before. “You should eat… sleep.” I nod my chin toward the pallet of furs in the far corner of the tent.

The princess says nothing, watching me with that same unreadable expression as before, her hand wrapped around the dark rune I burned into her wrist.

“I have some things I need to take care of. Someone will be outside,” I tell her, pausing once more before slipping out into the night, considering her again. “You’re in the middle of a war camp,” I warn her, as if that wasn’t obvious. “Do not leave this tent.”

And there it is. My first order.

The existing coolness in her gaze sharpens to a point.

“I’m not afraid to die,” she bites back at me, her voice rough and low.

I stop, turning slowly to face her, all the while letting my gaze trail pointedly down her body, watching as her discomfort grows, especially when I let it linger upon the golden skin of her upper thigh, visible through her torn skirts.

“Ah, Princess, as you just nearly experienced, there isn’t a whole lot of love for the fae around here. And there are quite a number of things that could happen to you should you walk out this door. Things I can assure you would be far worse than death.”

The princess pales at the notion, but before she has a chance to muster a comeback, I take my leave, striding out of the tent and leaving her behind.

Chapter 20

ROWAN

Ican’t take my eyes off the mark Ayer left on my wrist. It’s so similar to the ink on his body; dark, twisting lines of black ink—symbols I don’t recognize.

Runes.

I’ve only read about them in books and, admittedly, not that much, since I didn’t exactly find them to be particularly interesting.

Staring down at the little rune burned into the skin of my wrist, I think I might have a newfound interest in the topic.

I scurry over to the washbasin Ayer had knocked onto the floor earlier. Righting the bowl, I snatch a pitcher of water off the nearby table, dumping it into the bowl before plunging my wrist inside.

Snatching a clean cloth from next to the basin, I scrub furiously at the mark, anxiety rising with every second the dark ink stays put.