Page 101 of Feathers and Thorns

He breathed heavily from the exertion and spat on the creature before snarling, “No, but it will sure as fuck make me feel better.” That said, he got to his feet and pulled Enara’s lifeless form into his arms and wept.

He nuzzled into her neck, whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” over and over again, rocking back and forth. It had only been minutes since he’d watched her fall, so heat was still rising from her body. He pressed against her chest, wishing he could switch his heart for hers so that he could take her place when he heard it.

Thump.

And then again a moment later.

Thump.

It was the single, most beautiful sound in the entire world, and hope bloomed in his chest like the wildflowers in springtime.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “Come back to me, Enara.”

Thump. Her heart beat again, faster this time. Thump.

He held her softy as he watched shallow breaths lift her ribcage and she stirred in his arms. When she finally spoke, her voice came out in a broken rasp. “Baz,” was all she could manage.

“It’s okay,” he replied. “I know. I’m here. I’ll always be here,” he rushed out.

She sat up and wrapped her arms around him before getting to her feet.

“Take your time,” he said, holding her elbow.

“I’m okay,” she replied.

His brows furrowed when he noticed the black and purple bruises forming on her neck and wished he could bring that bastard back to life so he could kill him again.

Noticing his gaze, Enara reached forward and lifted his chin. The gold flecks in his eyes were glassy, shined to a fine polish with unshed tears. She urged him to believe her when she whispered the words again, “I’m okay.”

All Baz wanted to do was to pick her up and take her away from battle. To nurse her back to health and spend the rest of their days in quiet happiness. He would not do that, though. Not yet. Enara could not leave her friends now any more than he could. So, he kissed her, pressing his forehead to hers, and said, “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” she rasped back then looked to where Soren and Rook were facing off with Adriel. “Let’s end this.”

Soren was lifted from the ground by her arm, and she swore as she swung Quill violently, attempting to make any contact. She and Rook had cut Adriel dozens of times using their agility to their advantage, but he healed faster than they could injure.

She screamed in frustration as Adriel scowled at her, throwing her to the ground. She wanted to take her blades and dig them into the red scar on his face in an attempt to make the rest of his body match.

She coughed against the pain in her ribs, the stabbing feeling inside the cage of bones letting her know that at least two of them had been broken by the impact. Her shoulders ached, and sweat rested thick on her brow, but she stayed on the offensive.

As she was thrown to the ground, Rook took her place, ducking quickly before arcing his blades back up, the right one catching the underside of Adriel’s chin.

He roared angrily and focused all of his attention on his son.

“You are no son of mine.” Adriel thought the words would hurt Rook, distract him even. The boy had always craved the attention of his father, and he wanted his words to cut as deep as a blade.

“Corvus was more of a father to me than you ever were,” Rook retorted, darting back in with another barrage of his blades. Adriel blocked them all with ease as the slice on the underside of his chin stitched itself back together.

Soren had gotten back on her feet and threw Quill, hoping her blade would find purchase in one of Adriel’s more vital organs. Her aim was true, but as the dagger flew end over end toward the exposed space between his front and back armor plates, he turned and caught it.

Without a second thought, he whipped it back at her, and it lodged deep into the top of her thigh. Soren’s scream could have shattered eardrums as she landed hard on the ashen ground.

“You’ll pay for that!” Rook shouted, his nostrils flaring. He attacked his father with everything he had, this time focusing on a new target—the straps of Adriel’s armor.

The rapiers sliced through the taut leather, and the breast and back plates fell to the ground, leaving his father’s torso exposed. He seemed unconcerned.

“I do not need armor to break you, son,” he goaded, his smile a bright white, only fueling Rook’s hatred for him.

His father raised his sword, fighting back with all his skill for the first time, and Rook struggled to block the blows. The height and weight advantage took its toll, and Rook’s muscles strained against the pressure his father’s sword placed on his blades.

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