Page 50 of Prince of Ruin

A cool breeze hits me when I open the door and peer into the dark, damp room, illuminated only by a flickering torch. Fae might be able to withstand brutal conditions like this for a long period of time, but they’re not ideal for mortals. Already Clav is coughing, due to the mildew or mold growing from the constant wetness down here. Even his clothes are damp from a stream from the condensation on the walls that makes its way through the cell. He’ll get a rash on his skin, and get sick from the cold, damp, cell. The rancidsmell threatens to make me puke. I was planning on hanging out down here with him until his finger either fell off or remained intact, but there’s no fucking way I’m staying down here.

Nor am I leaving him behind.

He’s not asleep. He’s staring at his hands, and when I step in, he looks up at me. Dark circles form under his eyes, and the life in his gaze has dulled. He’s probably not slept since, well, since I met him three days ago. And…he only ate one meal since we captured him. That was twelve hours ago. God dammit.

“Come on,” I whisper, using the key I took from Ulna to unclasp the shackles from around his wrists. The metal of the shackles left his wrists raw and red. Letting them clatter to the floor, I pull his arm around my shoulders. He coughs again, his cough wet and flinching.

Fuck, what have I done? I could have easily swayed Tarsus into placing Clav into a better prison. Tarsus would have bucked at the idea, but they would have listened. But I was too busy stewing, thinking of my own problems. In my head, Clav turned into a fae the day he had his hand clamped over my mouth as he pinned me down and shouted at me. But he’s still in a mortal body.

With his arm slung around my shoulders, I help him up the stairs, through the kitchen, down the halls,and up more stairs. He’s able to walk okay, but he’s significantly weaker than he was only hours ago when he ran for the throne. As if defeat carved surrender into the marrow of his bones.

I take him to a guest room. The moon must be full tonight, because its faded light breaks through the thinner clouds that have been hovering over our continent since the battle. The moonlight slants through the window, painting the black marble floors and pale walls in an ashen glow.

I lead Clav straight to the bathroom, set him on the toilet, and turn on the hot water, preparing the bath. I noticed at lunch the sickness and fatigue that clung to his body. At that moment, he was a prisoner who needed to be reminded of his place. Now, I see him as a human who had no choice but to fight in a war he knew nothing about.

Once the bath is filled, I begin to help lift his shirt off.

“I can undress myself,” he snaps, though the bite in his voice is weak and pitiful. It’s hard seeing him like this. Serious. In pain. This is the boy I joked with, slept with, and it breaks my heart to see him this miserable.

He stands and slowly unbuttons his stained, wrinkled shirt, but his fingers fumble with the buttons, and he nearly topples over before I catch him, fingers digging into his ribs. I help him unbutton the rest of hisshirt, not caring now how much he might fight my help.

When all his clothes are removed, a punch of guilt hits my stomach.

His body has bruises and scratches all over it. From the battle, from the fall from the balcony when Weaver was chasing him, who knows. His ribs are showing. He was already skinny to begin with, but three days with very little food has made him more emaciated than before. He steps into the bathtub and sinks beneath the water, the relief visible on his face. My heart squeezes at the sight, the vulnerability written all over his face as I use a rag to bathe him, being extra careful around his bruises and cuts.

When I move to his wrists to clean the wounds left by the shackles, I notice bruises marking his forearm, right next to the dinosaur tattoo. Another deep gash crosses his chest. “What are those from?”

He looks at his arm, the crease between his brow deepening. “Abaddon. He fucked me. Consensually, but damn. He was rough.” The corner of his lips pulls up in a smile, as if remembering the event fondly, and it makes me second guess him again.

“You…willingly fucked the bat king?” Maybe Tarsus was right all along. As a human, I’m not sure I would have fucked a bat-like creature on my first night here. I’m not sure I would do it now, even after being exposed to all the strange creatures in this world.

Abaddon is easily eight feet of brute muscle and fur and massive, leathery wings with gleaming talons that could end me with one swipe. Abaddon is nightmare fuel. So the fact that Clav fucked him willingly…I move back, trepidation snaking up my spine.

“He seemed…safe enough.” Clav’s smile fades into a frown, his gray eyes meeting mine. “And…I don’t know. Maybe it’s all the monster fucker books I read, but I wanted to live out that fantasy.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. Books will always be our common ground, and apparently, our undoing. “Was it everything you hoped for?”

His brows rise in surprise, and for the first time since that night at the faire, his features soften, and humor glints in his eyes. “It hurt a little.” He snorts. “Okay, it hurt a fucking lot. His dick washuge. I’m pretty sure he tore my ass up.” He reaches up and caresses his jaw. “My jaw still hurts. And his talons poked into my skin and scratched me up pretty bad.” He twists his shoulders where another large gash slashes down his back. I use the washcloth to gently clean it. “But, I mean, it was fucking phenomenal.”

“Holy shit,” I can’t stop my own chuckle from escaping me as I move to another scratch on his arm. “Don’t tell Tarsus you fucked the bat king. They will lose their fucking mind.”

Clav snorts. “What’s Tarsus’ deal, anyway? They’re not even giving me a chance to state my side of the story. It’s like…they think I deserve to suffer for shit I don’t even remember doing.”

“They think you’re lying.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not.” He shifts his eyes to mine. “What about you? What do you think?”

I look at his pinky, still intact. Not blue or gray…yet. “I think I want to believe you.”

I stand to leave him alone to finish up washing, but he grabs my wrist. “I really am sorry,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “I’m sorry for losing my shit on you. I’m sorry for calling you Tarsus’ dog. None of this is your fault, yet you somehow got caught in the crossfires.”

His apology leaves me speechless. “I chose this life. I know the risks that come with living in a fae world.” He drops his hand from my wrist, and I offer a small smile. “Do you?”

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. “I’m learning.”

I nod toward the sink. “I got you a toothbrush and toothpaste and all the other toiletries I thought you might want.” Stepping out of the bathroom, I wait by the door to ensure he doesn’t try to escape. He comes out a few minutes later, nothing but a white towel wrapped around his narrow waist. He doesn’t look so bad now. I can still make out muscles in his abdomen,and his bubblegum hair is a wet mess that gives me an immediate boner. In nothing but a towel and his glasses, he looks like a model. I grow hot at the sight of him, at the memory of the fucking we shared—the way he gently knelt before me, then the way he laid me on the bed and pounded into me—and I quickly look away.

Clavicle sits on the bed, and I provide him with a fresh set of boxers, sweatpants, and a white t-shirt, but he only sets them aside.

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