Page 58 of Heart of Night
The tattoo on my shoulder is ablaze with awareness even when she’s out cold, her chest rising and falling with slow breaths. Herinor has his hands on my mate, and the urge to rip his throat out is second only to the need to tear the bonds holding me in place and pick her up from that table to carry her to safety.
“Don’t worry, Myron. She’s all right … for now.” Ephegos traces his finger over the rack of tools by the wall, his smile widening.
“Worry? About a human woman?” It’s the only defensive mechanism I can come up with, pretending I don’t care when everyone in this room already knows what she is to me.
Ephegos isn’t stupid. He saw the tattoo on my shoulder, and judging by the way he uses Ayna against me, he must know this is something more than a plain inked mark I got to memorize our curse. He has realized what is going on. Plus, he has Herinor, and Herinor is one of the oldest Crows alive. If anyone knows what Crow bonds look like, it’s him. My tattoo is a fucking mate Mark, and I can’t wait to see what Ayna’s looks like.
Katrijanov? He’s the outsider when it comes to magical relationships one doesn’t get to choose yet can’t live without, but even he knows what’s going on.
“About your mate,” he corrects, stalking past my table, not sparing me a glance as he heads straight for Ayna, the sword in his hand ready to spear me if I should ever make it out of my leather shackles. That he might be readying it to hurt Ayna is an option I can’t allow myself to consider.
“Tell me, Myron.” Ephegos pulls a handkerchief from his sepia finery—the traitor—wiping the blood from the edge of the table and pockets it before he perches beside my hip. “What is it like to die for love? Must be a redeeming end.”
I spit at him.
“I see you still haven’t forgiven me. Good.” He flashes his teeth, that hint of insanity shining through. “Because I haven’t forgiven you either. But even more important than that…” He wipes my spit from his sleeve on my bare arm. “You are one of the strongest magical creatures out there and a great measure against the effectiveness of the serum we developed.”
I try to follow him, but he pulls a syringe from the pocket of his jacket and holds it needle-up in front of his face.
“Is that the drug you keep giving us?” I wish Royad, Silas, and Astorian were here. Together, we might be strong enough to take on the traitor Crow and the general. Even Herinor, who doesn’t look like he intends to fight if I manage to free myself. He doesn’t look like he is ready to help me either.
“This is a new one.” Pride shines in Ephegos’s eyes as he makes the transparent liquid swirl in the body of the syringe. “I call it the deep sleep … for your magic, of course, not for you. I want you wide awake while we test your mate’s limits.”
Every fiber in my body rears up, straining against the weak leather restraining me. Weak—but I’m weaker. Weeks of being drugged and tortured haven’t helped my general condition.
With a curse, I slump on the table, seething at Ephegos if there is nothing else I can do.
“I don’t know how much more your body can take, Myron.” He looks me over with that fake pity he’s perfected, and I know that, this time, there is no escape. I can hyperventilate as much as I want. This time, I need to stay alert because, much as I’d love to tell myself that there’s a way out of this, Ayna is right there, and I can’t close my eyes when they are setting my mate up to suffer.
Ephegos has come to see me break. He has brought the only weapon that might actually be able to accomplish the task. And she’s more beautiful than I even remember—beautiful and oblivious.
“Touch her and I’ll rip your fucking head off.”
Katrijanov has the nerve to laugh while Ephegos lowers the needle to my forearm and pricks my skin. His smile widens into a manic grimace as he injects me with the deep sleep.
This time, I don’t pass out from the drug. I am wide awake, my magic retreating even farther behind the curtain that keeps it concealed, and I’m powerless as Katrijanov sheathes his sword and pulls the thin blade from the tool rack.
He doesn’t heat it up the way he does before he cuts into my skin but pulls up Ayna’s sleeve and sets the tip to her bare forearm.
“No.” My voice is faster than my thoughts, but I don’t care. The leather bites into my skin as I fight against my restraints. “Don’t touch her.”
Herinor has stepped back, his gaze meeting mine with the same helplessness I feel. He isn’t here because he enjoys seeing me suffer. I don’t have the capacity to figure out what else would make him turn against me; the single drop of blood welling up on Ayna’s pale skin is enough to drown out all other thoughts.
Crimson and perfectly round like a polished crystal, it sits as Katrijanov pulls back the knife. He flashes me a challenging look, an invitation to try to stop him.
I’m fucking aware that, as long as I’m strapped to the table, there’s nothing I can do. At least, Ayna isn’t awake to feel the prick. But I am. I am fully awake, my blood pounding through my veins as I pick up the scent of hers—iron and salt and the wind of the ocean. Suddenly, it’s all I can smell. My senses rush back to me as if the curtain has been lifted, and I can hear Ayna’s slow heartbeat, her shallow breathing, can make out the floral scent of her soap like a thread of life in this chamber of pain and death.
I only notice that Ephegos injected me with another serum when he pulls the needle out and steps away from the table. “Now you have all your fae sense and none of the options to act on them. Let’s see how you enjoy that.” He turns to Katrijanov with a nod, letting his words sink in.
All my fae senses?—
The bright room is suddenly brighter, the colors more facetted. I can hear the footsteps in the hallways above, the low chatter of voices outside the dungeon. Royad and Astorian are talking to Silas about their suspicion that I might not return this time—they heard the guards talk…
I need to close my eyes as every detail hits me at once, but none of them are as hypnotizing as the scent of Ayna’s blood. It lures me like the flame does the moth, tearing my focus back toward her—not that it ever truly left.
I can taste her on my tongue, feel her in my chest. Her skin is warm, radiating through the room with that same magnetic pull as her blood. I need to touch her. Gods, do I need to touch her.
“It’s working.” Katrijanov’s voice is a hum in the background even when I can hear everything in clearest detail. Ayna’s presence drowns out everything else—so does the Syringe Ephegos lowers over the crook of her elbow, shooting me a cruel smile.