Page 71 of Scourged
“What fucking answer do you want? That I remember nothing, that I was as much a prisoner there as she was? I never fuckingtouchedher, Sebastian. The last thing I remember was riding to confront my father about my mother’s death. After that, it’s all darkness and nightmares until the bond. The end.”
“‘The end.’” Quentin pressed the dagger further into Andrian’s throat. “Do you honestly expect us to believe that? How is it that she’d planned to bond with you the very night you both went missing?”
Andrian blinked. “What … what the fuck are you talking about?”
Sebastian stepped forward, brows pushed together over dark eyes. “Oh, don’t pretend to be ignorant now. You returned from wherever you went after your meeting with your father and Shawth and told her you were ready to take the bond. She said as much to Ciana before she went to bed that night.” Sebastian’s voice guttered, anger hardening his hazel stare into stone. “She was so happy. And now she’s a ghost of herself.”
Andrian gaped, jaw slackening. His chin touched the cool metal of the dagger against his throat, but he didn’t care. “I … I don’t remember. I don’t rememberanyof that. Thatwasn’t me.”
“Then who the fuck was it? Because it looked and sounded enough like you that it fooled even her.”
Andrian didn’t have an answer for Sebastian. He simply stared at his friend, his brother, forcing his shadows and his rage away, burying them deep. Back into the twisted and tattered ruins of his soul, where they belonged.
Quentin must’ve seen the defeat humming off him; he pulled the dagger from Andrian’s jugular, taking a step away. He didn’t sheath it, though.
Andrian swallowed, his mouth dry, his throat dry. He was so tired, yet filled with a strange, disorganized energy, whirling and vibrating just beneath his skin. It was something new and foreign, but also welcome and familiar.
As much a conundrum as the dark-haired woman who he expected was its source.
“I don’t know,” he whispered, not bothering to hide his fear. His rage. His exhaustion and frustration. The three men raised their brows, their postures relaxing. Quentin finally slipped his dagger back into his baldric, while something like pity wrote itself across Drystan’s face.
Andrian suspected this was the first time any of them had heard—truly heard—that much raw emotion in his voice.
“I don’t know what it was. I only remember bits and pieces. Nightmares, mostly. Nightmares shrouded as memories. And a voice whispering to me everything I’ve always known that was broken with me.” He met Sebastian’s gaze. If anyone would hear him now, it was him.
“There were moments when I could glimpse the world around me, but I was so locked away that I couldn’t understand what it meant. My senses governed in those moments—smell,touch, bits and flashes of color. But beyond that, everything was shadow and darkness, a never-ending hellscape that felt a bit too much like Enfara for my liking.”
They watched him in silence as he spoke. Sebastian took a small step back as Drystan shifted on his feet.
“You’re different,” Quentin murmured. “Changed.”
Andrian scoffed. “No shit.”
“No, I mean … you’vechanged.” Quentin cocked a head, like a bird of prey working through a puzzle. “The old you would’ve never been so open about what he felt. Either Mariah has really managed to get through to you, or …” He unsheathed a new dagger and twisted it in his hand.
“Or what?” The Andrian of a few months ago would’ve been annoyed. Irate, even, at this ridiculous line of questioning.
The Andrian of today, though, was only tired.
“Or this isn’t you, and you’re still wearing the same disguise you were when you stole her from us the first time.”
That was the final straw. Shadows broke from Andrian’s shoulders, and he clenched his hands into fists as he snarled back at Quentin. “You little fuckingprick?—”
“That’s enough.” Drystan moved, placing himself firmly between Andrian and Quentin. The latter had settled into a fighting stance, an eager grin on his face as he palmed his knives. Drystan glared hard at him.
“We’re not making any decisions or accusations here tonight. None of us knows what truly happened, and it’s not for us to decide what happens next.”
“We can’t just let him go back to his rooms, Drystan.” Sebastian’s voice was quiet, controlled. It grated against Andrian’s skin, pulling his teeth further back into a snarl.
His control was waning thin, and he was craving a little blood and chaos.
“You’re right.” Drystan swung his firm golden stare to Andrian. “We can’t. But we also can’t lock him up anywhere, either. I propose he stay here, in these rooms. They’re comfortable and clean, and he can go about his days in the palace without too much risk of crossing paths with Mariah.” Drystan turned back to Sebastian and Quentin. “Since, I’m assuming, that’s what you’re both so concerned about? You just want to keep him away from her until she decides what to do with him?”
As Sebastian and Quentin shared a contemplative look, Andrian felt his chest go tight. Felt his shadows withdraw back below his skin, his rage dissipating as it was replaced with something … else. Something cold and painful and lonely.
For some stupid, self-indulgent reason, he hadn’t realized that his fate would be decided by his queen. Yes, he was bonded to her. But a part of him whispered that this bond was a means to an end for her, nothing more than a method of survival. That maybe she had no desire to be close to him, and simply needed the strength his connection would give her to escape.
That revelation stung and twisted his heart more than he knew was possible.