Page 37 of A Fate so Cruel

He tilted his head. Sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains on the other side of the room. His room, he realized. He tried to swallow and failed, his throat raw.

His body felt like a husk of its former self but—alive. He was alive.

Rion turned his head again and found Saoirse sleeping in the armchair next to his bed. Her feet were propped on the mattress and her head hung at an awkward angle. Bandages were piled off to one side of the chair. A bowl of clean water sat on the desk with a plate of uneaten food beside it.

Moving slowly, Rion lifted the edge of the sheet to examine his stomach. Someone had wrapped him in a bandage and judging from the stinging pain, they’d stitched him, too. Emotion swelled through him. He’d made it.

Saoirse’s eyes fluttered open and immediately shot to him. She froze. The siblings stared at one another for a long moment, then Saoirse swung her legs down and reached for the water pitcher on the end table.

Ice still floated on the surface, telling Rion the slaves were likely tending to her needs.

She withdrew a small vile from her pocket and put a few drops in the glass before carefully sitting at his side.

Rion fought to sit up and she set the cup aside to assist before handing it back to him. Rion’s hands shook and Saoirse helped to steady the glass as he lifted it to his lips. He downed every drop, not bothering to ask what she’d put inside. It wasn’t like his sister would poison him.

Saoirse set the glass aside but didn’t stand. Her eyes were bloodshot and heavy bags hung beneath them. She clasped and unclasped her hands. “How are you feeling?”

“Like hell.” His voice croaked and he winced.

Saoirse looked him over. “I need to change your bandages again, but we can wait until after you eat something.” Silence lingered like a thick fog. She fiddled with the edge of the sheet, folding and unfolding a small corner. “What happened?” she whispered.

It all came rushing back. Caol. The betrayal. The anger and hurt in the male’s gaze. Rion wasn’t even sure where to begin. “They found Caol’s body,” she continued. “Or what was left of it. The wolves got there first.”

He wondered if Saoirse had come clean about where he’d been staying. Beyond that, he wondered how she’d convinced Alec to let him in the palace at all. After the situation with Liam, Rion wasn’t sure he’d ever see this room again.

“Caol,” Rion choked, “I don’t think he believed me about the attack.”

She chewed her lip. “You mentioned him acting strange, but I never thought—”

“He said he wanted to spar,” Rion continued. He felt as if he were reliving the moment all over again. He glanced back down at his abdomen.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it.”

“Neither did the healers. The slaves came for me when you barged through the front doors. They said you were calling my name.”

Fear burst through him and Rion felt himself pale. “I didn’t—”

She shook her head. “They knew not to approach. You didn’t hurt them, but, gods, Rion, you almost bled out.” Saoirserefilled the water cup and offered it to him again. “You’re going to stay with me from now on,” she said in a serious tone.

“I’m sure Alec will love hearing that.”

“Alec and I already had it out. You’ll be at my side during every mission.”

“Saoirse, you can’t—”

“I can,” she bit out, but Rion could see the way her jaw trembled. Her eyes shone in the dim light. “I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you.”

Rion didn’t respond; if he tried to argue, she’d only cry. He glanced toward the window instead.

Home. He was finally home.

His jaw worked as images of Caol flashed through his mind. Images of the male teaching him how to hold a sword. Reminders of a male who’d been patient with a heartbroken child. He’d taught Rion how to control his magic. Caol had taught him about Nàdair’s history. He’d walked him through the strategies of elite generals before their time. He’d taught Rion how to survive.

Rion couldn’t stop the emotion rising through him. “I killed him.”

“You were just defending yourself.” Again. It felt like the same repeated excuse. How many times could one defend themselves before the world turned on them? How long before his sister stopped believing him?

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