Page 45 of The Prince's Captive

She supposed she wasn’t going to be allowed to go anywhere until she did.

Not that she’d be allowed to go anywhere afterwards.

Gavril repeated the first half of the short phrase again. She slowly, haltingly stuttered over the unfamiliar words. Some of the men behind her snickered at the way she struggled with their sharp sounds. Gavril’s fierce glare over her shoulder at whoever it was silenced them immediately.

He murmured, “Ignore. Doing well.”

He then continued giving her the next few words. She stumbled over them and slaughtered them like she did the first few ones. It was one thing to try to decipher pieces of their sentences, it was another thing entirely to force her mouth to form the foreign sounds. Especially without knowing what she was saying.

Not to mention how hoarse the bruises made her already guttural voice sound.

Once he’d stopped giving her phrases to say, he reached forward with the hand that wasn’t holding his piece of the ration and gently pushed her hand up to her mouth. She reluctantly ate her portion and once she had, he gave her that sad smile and ate his.

The commander spoke again, taking the wineskin from the heretic and holding it out to Gavril. As he took it, he said something. He didn’t drink, however. He reached forward with one hand, sliding it to the back of her head and stepping closer. She stayed completely still. He lifted the wineskin and spoke softly, “Repeat then drink.”

He gave her the first phase. She said it. Then the second. She said it. Then he lifted the wineskin to her lips. He tilted it up until she could taste the cheap wine on her lips. She drank the smallest sip she could, and he pulled the wineskin away. Then he took her right hand and wrapped it around the wineskin and said, “Now me.”

The flash of pain that went through her wrist had her biting down on her lip until it passed. His eyes darted down to her lip, and his brow furrowed. She cursed herself for not hiding it better, but he continued on with the ritual.

He took the hand that wasn’t holding the wineskin and slid it to the back of his head, mirroring what he’d done with her earlier. She slowly lifted the wineskin up to his mouth, still digging her teeth into her lip as the throbbing pain increased. She tilted it up sharply, practically dumping it on him, but he quickly reached up and caught her hand and pulled the wineskin down before he choked.

The sharp increase of pain in her wrist at the motion was worth it.

She could hear laughter behind her, but he just smirked and reached up and wiped off the little wine that did spill down his lip and jaw. He took the wineskin from her and handed it back to the heretic.

The fact that he was so unrattled only infuriated her further.

The commander spoke again, and Gavril reached into his pocket and pulled out the two necklaces and a key. He said something as he grabbed her left arm. She held her breath as he unlocked the cuff and pulled it off. The muffled sensation eased but didn’t vanish entirely. If she tried, she knew she could reach some of her vitae, but before she could try, he passed the cuff to the heretic and had her hand in his. He took the necklace he’d given to her and wound the leather around her skin until the rectangular piece pressed against her wrist. He was still speaking as he finished securing the leather and metal, now as a bracelet.

“—mea sponsa.”

His thumb brushed over her pulse as he slowly pulled his hand away, his palm dragging across hers. She didn’t know what kind of Inimicus magic or ritual this was, but there was no denying there was a weight to this ritual. It had to be something important, and anything important to an Inimcus was bad.

He then held out the other piece and the leather band to her and whispered, “Now me, again.”

He gave her the phrase. She didn’t say it. She just stared at the rune etched into the metal. What Inimicus magic was this they were doing to her?

“Mea spes…” He whispered. “I promise. No harm will come to you. Trust me. I will prove you can trust me. Please, speak.”

He said the words in his language again. She slowly repeated them in a dead, faltering voice. As he kept feeding her the words, she slowly reached up with shaking hands, the pain in her wrist increasing, and tied the leather band and metal piece onto his left wrist.

The last word of his language died on her lips as she finished the knot.

Before she could rip her hands away, he reached up and grabbed her left hand in his. He shifted his fingers until his palm was aligned with hers and his fingers pressed against hers perfectly. He reached up with his right hand and grabbed her arm, holding it in place in case she jerked back.

She still tried anyway.

He looked up and over to the commander and the heretic. The heretic sighed and stretched his arms out, one hand over her left arm and the other over his left arm. His fingers flew and a rune lit up the air. Gavril’s grip on her arm tightened and fingers started to move, hers moving with them and mirroring their movements as he manipulated them. She summoned the little vitae she could feel, desperate to do anything—even something small to stop this—but when she tried to cast, she couldn’t get her rune right as Gavril kept casting his. As he forced her fingers to move to the same motions he was using to cast his rune.

She jerked against his grip as vitae started to stretch over her left arm and Gavril’s. What was this? She didn’t know their runes, but she could feel the vitae. It wasn’t her vitae lighting up her skin. But she could feel hers rising and shooting forward toward his arm, only she had no control over it.

It didn’t burn. It didn’t hurt. It just… glowed.

Then the heretic pulled his arms back and his rune faded. The light faded so the runes on her skin no longer glowed. But the lines were still there. Gavril’s grip eased and she ripped her arm out of his, pulling it to her chest and gasping at the lines now on her skin. She could still sense vitae pulsing, but then the heretic grabbed her arm and the cuff was clapped back around her wrist, below the bracelet, and the muffled sensation crashed onto her. She could no longer sense the vitae, whether it had been her own or not.

Out of the corner of her eye, as she was still staring at the lines, someone passed the heretic a waterskin and she watched him pour it over the commander’s hands and he washed them. Then the commander poured water over the heretic’s hands and he washed them. They were both muttering about ‘the demon.’

Gavril just shook his head at them and muttered under his breath, but he was also clutching his wrist and rubbing his hand over the lines.

---