Page 7 of Of Blood and Banes
“You stay, Corvin,” Sethan calls behind me.
The poor soldier flicks his attention from me to behind me, his forehead glistening with nervous sweat. The longer the seconds tick by, the harder the realization washes over me. He’sweighing mine and Sethan’s commands. He’s hesitating because ofme.
I turn back to Sethan and point down at Darian, betting on my intuition. “Leader of the Dragon Lands or not, you will not touch him again.”
Sethan snorts, seemingly amused at the conviction in my tone. “Then I suppose you’ll be the one responsible for questioning him? Please. Go ahead. Find out why the King wants all the dragons dead.”
He holds my gaze. Waiting for me to back down. I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to break under his narrowed stare. To not flinch at the thought of uncovering a truth I’m unaware of. But part of me is just as eager for the answer.
Finally, he waves his hand as if pestered by a horse fly. “Let’s go, Corvin. We’ll try this again tomorrow.”
Corvin hangs the whip back up on its hook with a speed that reeks of desperation to get out of this room and throws me an apologetic look over his shoulder as he meets Sethan at the staircase.
Sethan levels me with a look. “I’ll show you this one act of respect—and mercy. Do not be quick to forget it.”
He and Corvin ascend the staircase out of view, their footsteps fading into silence.
A wheezy breath tugs my attention away from the stairs, and I turn to face Darian. The wounds patterning every inch of his face, neck, and chest makes me hurt as if I sustained the injuries myself. They’ve stripped off his shirt, revealing more lacerations than I can count. Ungodly amounts of blood stain his matted hair, his pale face, the stone floors, and his filthy pants.
My stomach churns at the realization of how long he must have been down here to have so many brutal injuries. I’ve been out for several days.
Days…my stomach does an uncomfortable flip at the thought. He’s miserable looking. Painful to behold. He doesn’t even look up, eyes still squeezed closed as he uses every bit of his strength just to fuckingbreathe.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, crouching to his level. A distant pain spiders in my ribs at the maneuver.Gods, he needs Marge. Desperately.I pat my sides, searching for anything I have on me to help him but find nothing.
“Leave…me.” His voice is ragged. As if those two words took every ounce of his strength, and he forfeited a few precious breaths to mutter it.
“I’m not leaving you. Darian, they’ll kill you?—”
“Fuck ‘em. If they do…they’ll be doing me a godsdamned favor—” He’s ambushed by a violent cough and attempts to cover his mouth with the inside of his wrist while sputtering bits of blood and drool.
I reach out to him with a shaky hand, gently place my fingers under his sharp, stubble-dusted chin, and tilt his attention off the floor to me. Anything to beg him to listen. “You need a healer. You need Marge.”
He snatches me by the wrist and throws my hand away from him, the metal chains on his shackles jingling from the motion. “Get your fucking paws off me.”
His bloody handprint is wrapped around my wrist, and I stare at the splash of red against the black leather of Marge’s glove. He retreats, sitting back to lean his head against the wall.
How he’s managed to lose so much blood without passing out is beyond me. But if anyone can do it, it’s Darian. This man would stare death down in the face and have it running for the fucking hills. But there’s no denying the hint of defeat in the way his shoulders sag, and the dullness in those green irises. His rich, olive skin now borders ghastly.
“Darian…” I try again, gently.
Lifting his head off the wall, he glares at me with a fierceness reminiscent of a wild animal before it bites.
I inch toward him. “Let me help you up. We need to get you out of here so we can find someone to help.”
“There’s no helping me. It’s far too late.”
“Humor me.”
He doesn’t move or argue. His gaze is still locked on mine, though his eyelids flutter like he’s fighting a losing battle.
Don’t make me regret this.I slink forward and slide my arms underneath his, then lock my hands over my opposite wrists. He wraps his arms around me, and with a grunt, I help pull him up to his feet. Pain throbs in my ribs with warning, though I ignore it.
Darian finds his footing and releases me, his legs trembling as he leans back slightly against the wall to gather his balance. I pull back away from him, and my hands brush over his manacles. I pause—stuck on the metal slick with grime and blood constricting his movements.
He’s the prince of Arterias. His grandfather murdered countless dragons, riders, and rebels. Daeja and I are a target. Any doubt he isn’t led by his grandfather’s beliefs is whisked away by the memory of him executing two men who were reported to be sympathizers. He nearly killed Archie in a sparring match the first time I saw him. And who knows what other things Darian was responsible for?
He’s a prisoner of war.Perhaps he deserves this. Perhaps this is fate or karma.
