Page 67 of The Captive's Curse
One last burst of strength, numb limbs scrabbling at the stone, one knee falling, precariously sliding—around me the rain sluiced down, plastering my hair to my face, and the Mad Lord beat at me with half-corporeal fists—and I flung myself at the tower wall as it loomed out of the darkness, clinging to it and pressing my face to the stone, hardly able to pant for breath.
Now I knew how Prince Nikola had felt when he’d lain unconscious after healing his guard. The Mad Lord’s own deathmagic, whatever power kept him in existence in this plane, had sucked out most of my own. My eyelids kept trying to slide shut as I pulled myself up, grasping onto the edge of the window embrasure through which I’d seen the torchlight. Thank the gods it wasn’t glazed, or I’d have either beaten myself against it like a pathetic, half-dead moth or cut my own wrists trying to break the glass. At least the Mad Lord seemed to have buggered off and stopped trying to rip me to shreds, which meant that Enzo had to be…
I peered through the opening—and met Enzo’s dark, startled eyes.
Chained seated on the floor, with his arms stretched painfully out to either side, Enzo still managed to lounge against the wall as if he’d chosen to be there and was simply biding his time before he chose to go somewhere else.
And he was alive. Blessedly, beautifully, perfectly alive, with only a red contusion on one temple and the grime on his clothing to show he’d been captured and dragged here tied to a horse. Thank the gods, and I clung to the windowsill and gazed at him, relief flooding my chest and making me even dizzier than the vertigo.
Enzo shook his head, closed and opened his eyes, and then stared at me as if he’d seen—well, another ghost.
“Cyril,” he said, and even though the thunder crashed around us and the rain beat down, I heard it as clearly as if he’d spoken into my ear.
Caught in the heat of his gaze and drawn to him like a bit of iron to a lodestone, I was able to hoist myself up into the window, scramble through, and tumble down onto the floor, landing more or less on my feet, stumbling across until I fell to my knees beside him.
I reached up, almost afraid to touch him. What if this was some illusion, and I’d fallen off the wall and lay crumpled on the ground, broken and hallucinating?
But when I put my hand against his beard-roughened cheek, the warmth of his body seeped into my chilled palm and numbed fingers. The ragged remnants of my magic latched onto the sound and sight of him and drank him in, allowing me to replenish my strength with his, the pain of the Mad Lord’s attack fading almost into nothing.
The look in his eyes…I could hardly breathe, transfixed by what I read there: longing and desperation and relief to match mine, or even surpass it, as if he’d spent every moment in this cell as terrified for me as I’d been for him.
I licked my cracked lips, suddenly more shy than I’d ever been in my life.
Enzo’s gaze flicked down to follow the movement of my tongue. “Not the time, but I won’t say I’m not tempted,” he said. “Cyril. What are you—how the hell did you get in here? There’s nothing out that window but a sheer drop!”
“There’s a bit of wall. It’s wide enough to, well, it’s not wide enough. But I didn’t have a choice. The Mad Lord made it harder.” Enzo stared at me, eyebrows going up and up. I stroked up his cheek, buried my fingers in his hair. When I opened my mouth again, I didn’t have any choice at all about the words that came out. “I love you.”
Enzo went as still as if I’d used my magic to freeze him solid, not that I knew how to do that—except that apparently I didn’t need magic to horrify him into perfect stillness. His mouth dropped open, his eyes went wider than I’d ever seen them, and he stopped breathing.
A strange, cold clenching began somewhere near my collarbones, and moved down, down, coalescing in the pit of my stomach.
I love you.
The words rang in my ears, and no doubt in his, too.
Through the echo of my own incredible stupidity, I heard the scrape and thud of footsteps on the stairs below.
“Fuck, there’s someone coming,” Enzo hissed. “Get back out the window! Now! I can’t—Cyril, I can’t protect you like this.” He tugged at his chains as if they’d break if only he wanted it enough, his jaw gone hard. “Go!”
I couldn’t help laughing. I was never leaving him again. Because I loved him, and none of the plaintive ballads I’d ever sung—or written, for that matter—had ever done it justice, this feeling of complete certainty. He might not love me. He might even be horrified by the idea of it.
But I’d never leave him again unless he made me go—which he couldn’t do chained up, so he could go fuck himself.
My magic might not be at its strongest, but I had enough to save Enzo’s life, even if it left me a withered husk on the floor.
I reached up and wrapped my hand around the chain on his wrist, funneling the bright spark that floated in the center of me up and out, recklessly using my soul’s own reserves.Make it stop doing that, I told my magic, and the iron manacle—stopped being one. Rust flaked down and pattered onto the floor, and Enzo let out a surprised, pained grunt.
When I took my hand away, his wrist bore a steaming crimson mark in the shape of the manacle.
Well, I’d never claimed to be perfect.
Enzo lowered his arm and flexed his hand. “Fuck, Cyril, you’re incredible,” he breathed. “The other, come on!”
The footsteps stopped right outside the door, and a key clanked in the heavy lock.
I scrambled over Enzo’s lap, steadying myself on his shoulder and soaking in as much of his warmth as I could, summoning one last bit of the flaring light within me.
The other manacle filled my hand and my consciousness.Stop. It cracked and crumbled, and my hand dropped, arm suddenly nerveless. I tilted to the side, swaying, and a strong arm came around my waist.
