Page 70 of Court of Treachery

“Yes, me. I have a name, you know. Call me Dimitri.” He rolled his eyes, but his voice held no bite.

Her hands clutched at the coverlet. “What are you doing? How dare you! Did you? You didn’t?” She had no boots on—they were neatly by the door. As far as she could tell, she still wore her pants, her shirt—now untucked—and her cloak hung over the back of the chair Dimitrius sat upon.

He seemed to understand and grinned with a hint of his usual arrogance and cockiness. “Don’t worry. I used my magic. I didn’t peek. I can, though, if you like.”

Harper tried to retort, but only an indignant croak emerged. She hoped he was telling the truth. That he had not removed her dignity or worse as she slept. She wished she had the energy to throw something, anything, but she sank back onto the pillow instead. She still hurt too much, and her limbs felt leaden.

Dimitrius winked suggestively. The top of his unbuttoned shirt slipped open as he shifted in the seat, revealing those dark tattoos that wound up his chest and the side of his neck. She could have sworn the markings moved as she watched—and blinked harder, dispelling the sleep in her eyes and berating the poor light.

“You’re welcome,” he drawled, a hint of a twinkle in his smile. The smile she hated and desired. The one that presumed he could have whatever he wanted.

“I don’t need your help. Begone, you fiend!” All the comfort of that tender touch had vanished, and anger filled the raw hollow it had stripped from her defences.

“Oh, good. You must be alright if you’re cursing me,” he said, looking at her lazily from under his lashes. His smile widened as he crossed his legs and leaned toward her, dropping the wet cloth on the coverlet. “Go on. Try out some more insults on me.”

Sapped of strength and will, Harper scraped together what little she had to pick up the cloth and throw it into his face. It slapped wetly against his cheek and plopped into his lap, wetting the fine anthracite fabric. He blinked in surprise before recovering his customary swagger—and laughing. A belly-deep guffaw, confound him. “Feisty. I like it.”

Harper swore at him again, her face burning and agitation crawling under her skin at how vulnerable she found herself. “Get out!”

Dimitri pushed himself up from the bed and sauntered out, laughing. “You’re welcome.”

Harper glared after him, noting the quiet click of the door as it shut and the snap of a lock. She was determined to stay awake, to make sure he did not return, but exhaustion assailed her again, and the blackness called to her. It was as though some of Saradon’s magic lingered. It filled her limbs and mind with heavy sluggishness and pulled her down into the darkness, where dreams swirled of goblins and Saradon and Dimitrius with that cloth. She gladly fell, because the nightmares seemed better than the waking reality.

61

HARPER

The next time Harper awoke, Dimitrius sat beside her again, holding the cloth and a warm, fragranced bowl of water. Harper considered tipping the water over but was too tired to berate him. Questions assailed her—and she needed answers more than to antagonise him again.

“What happened?” She struggled to sit up, propping herself up on shaking arms.

“You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for a day or so now. I was hoping you would wake soon. I am sorry—I did not anticipate he would use such powers upon you. I would have intervened.” Dimitri’s smile was tired, but the fury that lined his eyes was razor-sharp. His familiar scent of him—sharp, sweet, and the hint of musk—teased her. It had been Dimitrius caring for her all that time.She did not quite dare ask why. The truth of that was too uncomfortable to face. “You haven’t been lucid much, mind. Incoherent mumbles at best.”

The back of her neck prickled, and her cheeks heated. Oh goodness. What had she said? She dreaded to think. “Where am I?”

“In Saradon’s own quarters.” His voice was quiet. Dimitri’s assessing gaze swept the room. He caught her wide eyes as sheglanced down at the bed—wondering if it was his. Bile filled her as revulsion reared. “He has the jarl’s wing. You’re in one of the other suites—as far from him as I could settle you. You’re safe here. As safe as you can be. I promise.”

I promise. Did that reassure her or not? Harper swallowed past the nausea and took a moment to examine the room. She reclined in a large bed—wider than she was tall—finished with thick coverlets. The stone-flagged floor was set in a diamond pattern tooled with geometric designs. Smooth walls held tapestries for warmth and alcoves for windows, each holding a stained-glass window that backed onto stone, with a faelight in a sconce to cast warm light over the room. A large fur on the floor—a bear of some kind—provided a touch of comfort, and at the foot of the bed was a closed chest of wood carved with knots and dragons. Through a rectangular archway, she saw a curl of steam emerge. A bathing chamber? She frowned and her gaze passed on, snagging on a wooden armoire and a desk—Dimitri sat in the matching chair, she realised.

Much like the quarters at the königshalle in Keldheim, it was practical but comfortable, but she could tell these were furnished for a higher class than their spartan quarters. Windowless, though. She fought the ever-present current of claustrophobia at the realisation of being under immeasurable tons of rock.

“Why are you here?” she asked. She drew her hands over the coverlets, clenching the fabric.

“I promised I would see us both through this. I don’t know how, I wish I did, but the least I can do is ensure you are not wholly at his mercy.” Dimitri twisted the cloth in his hands. His throat bobbed.

“Thank you,” she said softly, looking away. “Where is he?” She did not want to say Saradon’s name.

“Away.” Dimitri’s tone was hard. “He seeks alliances wherever he can find them. At present, he’s with the Indis peoples.”

“The warrior nomad women?” Erika’s people.

“Yes.” Dimitri looked at her sharply with a frown, then nodded. “Of course. The elf’s companion. You would know. There are few enough of them left, but they are a fearsome people. He hopes to leverage their anger after half a millennium of persecution in his name against those who hunt them.”

“Erika would never fight with him.” Harper was utterly certain.

“Then let us hope the remainder of her kin feel likewise, but I fear it will do little good. He will enslave them regardless.” Dimitri’s shoulders slumped. “This is madness. I see the chaos approaching, yet I feel powerless to do anything. This great storm shall devour us all.”

His voice was devoid of hope and strength, in a way she had not heard before. It dawned on her then. “You stay because you have nowhere else to go, yet you feel bound to try, don’t you?”

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