Page 97 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

With a whimper, I collapse against the side of the stream. I breathe hard, leaning against the trunk of a tree, my head tilted back toward the night sky. The reprieve from the sheer agony of walking is almost pleasurable. But I cannot sit still for long.

I groan as I unwrap my makeshift bandages. The cut is nasty, still bleeding, and deep enough to require stitches—though not deep enough to leave permanent injury.I hope.

I sift through my sack until I find Mary’s makeshift bag of injury treatment tools. She always keeps me prepared. I’d be dead without her so many times.

I open the bag. A flash of lightning overhead illuminates the long needle I had hoped to never need. The thread is a high-quality silk. I thread the needle and bring it to my torn flesh.

“There’s nothing to it,” I mumble with a quiet laugh.

The first puncture of the needle through flesh nearly makes me pass out. I clench my jaw, refusing to slow down—lest I be here all night until Rahk returns and finds me like this. By the second stitch, tears stream down my cheeks. The third stitch hurts worse than the injury itself.

“Keep going. Don’t stop,” I growl at myself, forcing my shaking hand to keep going. “The faster you go, the faster it’ll be over.”

I curse every inch of this wound that requires another stitch. Despite my intention to not stop or slow, I take a break halfway through. My hands are a bloodied mess.

I sag against the tree trunk, tilting my head up. Tears stream down my cheeks. “This is all my fault. And it’syourfault, Mama. You never should have come after me. Why did you have to go into the Wood? Ineededyou. I—I need you now. But you’re not here.”

It’s hatred that rises from deep inside me, fueling my needle as I begin stitching again. The worst part is the tug of the thread through the skin. I cannot yank too fast or risk tearing the skin, so I’m forced to pull long and slow. It’s agony.

I hate my mother for getting lost in the Wood. Even though she was a captive, enduring horrors I can only begin to guess at. I still hate her for it. I hate her for not abandoning me when she should have. I hate her for the empty shell of the person she was when she returned.

And I hate Father too—who remarried forme. Father—who died of a broken heart when Mama returned from the forest only to find he’d moved on.

But most of all, I hate myself. My family was torn to shreds, leaving me among ashes. Leaving me with a stepfamily that I never belonged to. All because of myidiocy. If it wasn’t for me, I would be with my family now, instead of pretending I was part of Agatha’s.

“Better I was left destitute,” I snarl through the tears.

I miss Bartholomew so terribly much. I must believe I will get her back. If I don’t—

“You’re going to get her back.” I wipe my nose on my bloodied sleeve, swearing into the darkness. “That is the end of the story. You’re going to get her back, and all of this will be worth it.”

I pull the last stitch through. I knot it quickly, then fall against the tree, my mouth open as sweat drips from my cupid’s bow onto my tongue. My leg pulses, and every heartbeat brings a fresh wave of agony.

It’s a mercy, a blessed mercy when the rain begins. Each drop stings against my stitches, but it is cooling on my fiery skin. A soothing balm. I let the rain soak me through, washing away my blood into the creek, washing away the scent of Faerieland.

It gives me just the scrap of determination and energy I need to push to my feet, still leaning on my makeshift cane, and hobble to the outhouse, which is empty—yet another blessed mercy. There I switch my clothes and hide my bloodied Ivy Mask garments to be cleaned later when I have a chance.

My luck cannot hold forever, however. When I get to my window, I nearly crumble in anticipation of the pain of climbing inside. I’m so exhausted the thought of just sleeping on the ground in the rain sounds far more appealing.

“This isn’t just about you,” I growl to myself. “You cannot let yourself get caught. For the sake of all the other raids that still need to happen. For the sake of those you haven’t rescued yet.”

So I toss away my walking stick, hoist myself into the open window, and endure the brand of fire that sears all the way to the bone when I swing my legs inside. I land on the floor of my small room, soaked and shaking. The jump slightly ripped a couple of the stitches, and fresh blood leaks into my wet trousers.

I change as fast as I can without dislodging more of my work. I rub my wet hair with the quilt on my bed, drying it as best as I can. Then, because Rahk still isn’t home, I sneak out of my room and go to the roll of bandages in his wardrobe. I fumble with the clean white bandage before cutting a good length. I scurry back to my room, leaving everything exactly as before, and the moment I shut my door, Rahk’s heavy boots thud down the hallway.

He survived the tentacled monster.

I didn’t realize how afraid I was for him until this moment. It strikes me like a wave on the seashore.He is alright.

Then, the relief passes, and panic nearly overtakes me. I hide the bandage, fling into bed, and pull the quilt over myself. I hide my still-wet head beneath my pillow and try to calm my breathing.

I listen as the door to his bedroom opens and closes. His boots thud a few steps, and then they land in a pile. His steps are quieter then, but the slight shuffle is enough to give away that he has also gone to the bandages. I listen to the sound of scissors clipping the bandages, the splash of water in the basin on the dresser, a singular grunt.

Not once does he come near my room.

Finally, I release my tightly held breath. I keep my eyes on the light under my door, watching for any sign of his approaching shadow. As quickly as I dare, I pull out the bandage and wrap my calf before I bleed on the mattress. It still throbs, but my fear has deadened the pain slightly.

When the wound is sufficiently bound and hidden beneath the legs of my night clothes, I lay back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Waiting for the racing thud of my blood to calm enough for sleep. Tremors move through my body.

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