Page 68 of Of Wind and Terror

“You’re talking to me now,” I muse, my tone carefully impassive.

I’ve been trying to get the bastard to speak with me for days, and he chooses now to be chatty?

Draven’s chuckle tapers off into a hacking cough. “Kind of hard to strike up a conversation when you’re unconscious.”

I don’t respond to that, mainly because I don’t know what to say to the true Night Prince. I have a thousand questions for him, but I feel so out of sorts and disgruntled that all of them remain lodged in my throat, refusing to come out. I’m dirty, sweaty, and wearing clothes covered in stains. Every moment I remain in this cell, my anxiety ratchets up until I fear I’ll suffocate.

I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

I begin to tap my hand against my thigh. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I feel the pressure of my fingers through my trousers.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I take comfort in the familiar pattern as my emotions threaten to sweep me away in a tidal wave. Anger. Disgust. Betrayal.

And fear.

It’s the latter emotion that confuses me the most.

When have I ever felt fear before? Genuine fear that siphons the breath from my lungs and makes my head cloudy?

I can’t remember. It certainly hasn’t been recently.

Even as I think that, I remember standing in Gaia’s temple, unsure of what became of Kassandra. I certainly felt fear then.

A rope coils around my neck like a noose. Breathing becomes impossible.

Where is Kassandra now?

Is she okay?

Draven clears his throat obnoxiously, and if I were in his cell, I would probably stab the fucker in the eye. I’m too damn irritated—too antsy—to engage in small talk.

I need to get out of here.

Now.

“So what did you do to get locked away?” Draven asks, his tone almost playful, despite the severity of the situation.

Then again, Draven has always been more flippant than Sylvan. Not a lot can bother the Night Prince.

“I went into a room I wasn’t supposed to,” I deadpan.

My eyelids feel unnaturally heavy, almost like lead weights. I know it’s probably a product of the damn cuff around my arm, draining my magic. The reminder only serves to exacerbate my rage.

“And that room was…?”

“One I wasn’t supposed to enter.”

Draven blows out a breath. “You’re not as chatty as some of the other prisoners.”

I wrinkle my nose before I can think better of it. “I’m a prince. Not some common criminal.”

Draven’s laugh is quick and humorless. “And yet you’re trapped in the same cage as they were.”

I curl my hand into a fist—though even that small movement takes too much energy. My head lolls backwards and rams against the cement wall behind me.

I’m so fucking tired.