Page 88 of Burning Crowns

‘What are you doing?’ said Wren.

His eyes blazed. ‘I could ask you the same thing, witch.’

He lunged, shoving Wren back towards the wall. She cried out as her head slammed against the rock. Alarik sealed the space between them, pinning her with his body. The waterfall made a veil behind him, sealing them in.

She struggled against him. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

Wren caught a flash of silver as he raised a knife to her throat. ‘I knew you’d go for that sword,’ Alarik spat. ‘You always meant to kill me.’

‘You’re being paranoid.’ Wren raised her chin to stop the knife from biting into her skin. It felt dull. A butter knife, she guessed. ‘I came up here because I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ he hissed. ‘You made me believe we were friends. You made me believe we were in this together.’

‘We are,’ Wren gritted out. ‘Just get off me.’

‘So you can kill me?’ His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and he looked like a man possessed.

‘Alarik, I promise I’m not going to kill you,’ she said, calmly. ‘Although … I might slap you for this.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, but this time his voice wavered. His grip slackened. Wren brought her hands to his chest, curling her fingers in the collar of his nightshirt. ‘Alarik,’ she said, gently pulling him close. ‘Look at me. I promise I won’t hurt you.’

He swallowed. ‘I just … I thought …’ He glanced at the sword, jutting out of the rock. ‘I saw it move.’

Wren grabbed his chin, pulling his gaze back to hers. ‘The edge of that blade is not meant for you,’ she said. ‘It is meant for Oonagh.’

‘Oonagh,’ he said, in a whisper.

Wren nodded. ‘Only Oonagh.’

Alarik dropped his head, and then the knife.

His face fell, and he sagged against her. ‘I’m so tired, Wren. So very tired.’

Wren gripped his shoulders, steadying him. ‘I know you are,’ she breathed. ‘So am I.’

Alarik raised his head, but the words never came. He grunted as something knocked into the back of his head.It took Wren a second to realize it was a fist.

Tor caught Alarik before he fell. He lifted him up, cradling his body as though he were no heavier than a sack of grain. He frowned at Wren, looking her up and down. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded dumbly. ‘Did you just knock—?’

‘Yes,’ he said, jaw tensed.

Wren almost laughed from shock. ‘You could hang for that.’

‘That’s tomorrow’s problem.’ Tor turned around and carried Alarik out of the pool. Wren followed him, wringing the water from her nightgown.

‘Wait,’ she called after him. ‘Will you come back?’

Tor looked at her over his shoulder. ‘What for?’

Wren’s face fell. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I just thought … well, to talk?’

He must have noticed her embarrassment or perhaps took pity on her standing in the middle of the cavern like a half-drowned rat, because he relented with a sigh. ‘Wait here.’

She sat at the edge of the waterfall, her ancestor’s sword momentarily forgotten as she waited for the soldier to return. True to his word, Tor came back a few moments later. It was only then that Wren noticed his white nightshirt was plastered to his skin, revealing the hard planes of his chest, and the ridges of his stomach muscles. His hair was damp, too. He raked it away from his face. ‘What do you want, Wren?’

Wren swallowed, searching for something to thaw this ice between them. ‘Why did you do that to Alarik just now?’

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