Page 28 of The Prince's Mage

“Then how can I fix it?”

He couldn’t. But…

Gavril’s eyes darted down to his right arm and the lines hidden under the illusion. He looked back up at Nikias. “Are you willing to do anything?”

Nikias stepped back, taking a sharp breath. It was clear what Gavril had in mind.

Oh, he had no intention of ever forgiving Nikias. But if Nikias wanted it badly enough…

If he could use it to protect Marcella…

“Whatever you ask.”

* * *

Gavril now had another set of lines on his right arm, this time on his bicep, marking the vow Nikias had just made. Nikias now had a matching set on his left arm.

A rather painful process for Nikias since his right arm was broken and he’d had to use both hands for casting the runes for the bond. It was still just a fraction of the pain he’d caused Marcella.

Still… Marcella was safer now for it.

He dropped onto his bed, exhaustion setting in. He’d still have to deal with Aimilia ratting him out, despite Nikias’ insistent denials she hadn’t.

But that was another day’s problem.

If Marcella was going to insist they stay in Areator, Gavril was never going to let her be harmed again.

Chapter11

MARCELLA

All Marcella saw in her dreams was the edge of a table she could not get off of and dead bodies piling up below her. Every time she tried to get off it, the straps tightened and slammed her front down into the wood while a knife dug into her back. When she tilted her head to the side, her left wrist was blank and bare. No bracelet.

When she lifted her head and looked ahead as far as she could, she saw why.

Gavril lay on top of the pile of bodies.

Marcella screamed his name. Or she tried to. All that came out was a garbled, hoarse noise as runes on her throat prevented her from making any comprehensible noise.

He didn’t move. He didn’t respond to her desperate cries.

He just lay there, his face pale and ashen except for the swollen black eye.

Dead.

She kept trying to get off the table, but it only made the pain in her spine deeper as whoever was wielding the knife dug in further.

There was no relief. No escape. No peace.

She woke up screaming. That was what she was used to more than the last few occasions she’d woken up far more peacefully.

But unlike before, when she would wake up screaming in her cell, curling into herself and focusing on the feeling of nothing on her wrists, this time she curled into the arms wrapped around her.

Instead of waking up to the echoes of her screams and her uncontrollable sobs, she heard his voice, bent low over her ear as he murmured softly, a combination of their languages, “—with you—tuebor—swear it—pulchra spes—no more—know not how—will. I am here. What little I am worth, I am here.”

Marcella scrambled to throw her arms around Gavril, wrapping herself around him and sinking into him. His hand sank into her hair, cupping the back of her head as she buried her face into his shoulder to muffle her shaking sobs.

She’d take the nightmares if only she would be able to wake up from them and not be a pathetic sobbing mess afterwards.

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