Page 34 of Jailer to the Death God
I used to be something else. Daughter, princess, sister, friend.
Now I am a cavernous space, dark, filled with fluttering papers and whispering ghosts and sorrow.
But when Arawn leans in, releases his cedar-and-sage breath against my mouth, and curls his beautiful lips back to show the derisive set of his white teeth—
I wake.
And I’m warm, deeply warm, right down to my bones.
“Don’t ever do that again, foolish Queen,” he hisses. “Don’t ever try to protect me. Why would you, when you know I can heal myself? When you know that I hate you?”
Hearing him say it aloud hurts. To hurt him back, I snap, “It was an instinct, a stupid one. I hate you too. Why should I want to spare you from injury?”
“You certainly shouldn’t.”
We stare at each other, pain and rage locking our gazes together, heat surging from his eyes to mine and back again, until it isn’t only heat, but hunger—the hunger I saw in him tonight when he spoke of the pleasure he wants.
“The guards will come any minute,” I whisper. “You should put the wings away and get some sleep.”
“We’re not done here,” he growls.
A delicious shiver travels over my skin. I grit my teeth against it. “Yes, we are.”
The muscles of his arms and chest flex, as if he’s thinking about backing away—even trying to move, unsuccessfully. “Why do you smell so damn delicious?” The words seem to jerk out of him, unintentional.
I quirk an eyebrow. “I smell like horse, and woodsmoke, and sickness.”
He ducks his head, inhaling near my neck. I lift my chin involuntarily, my heart racing.
“You did help me, back there,” I whisper. “You stopped the people from rioting. Thank you.”
“I did it for my own sake, not yours.”
“I saw your face,” I challenge him. “It was a little for my sake, too.”
He lifts his head again, sharply. Looks me in the eyes, while his profile nearly touches mine. I can hardly hold myself still. I have to repeat his words in my head:You know that I hate you.
Arawn’s jaw is hard, his arms rigid.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Distant voices at the corner of the hallway.
His wings and horns vanish instantly—he’s back to his human aspect, scooping up the clothes he shed, disappearing into his room, a few steps from mine, across the hall.
I retreat into my own room, trying not to acknowledge the fact that the night we spent together—the second half of the night, when I curled up against him—was the best sleep I’ve had since the plague began.
14
The Queen and I ride on horseback to the dawn meeting. There are fewer sick children today—a marked improvement from when we began this effort. Once they’ve all been tended, the Queen and her guards accompany me to a narrow northern gate leading out of the city.
“It’s a refuse gate,” she says.
“That explains the smell.”
“I thought it would be better for you to leave this way. Fewer people to notice your departure and ask questions.”
She’s right, as she usually is. And she looks startlingly beautiful today, wearing a furred cape, her eyes bright and her cheeks tinged pink by the cold. Her left cheek bears red scratches from the chunk of ice, and it’s also deeply bruised.
