Page 91 of The Ascended
"I do not?—"
"You do." His gaze swept over me. "The most compliant I've ever seen you was when I had you pressed against that wall."
"Don't flatter yourself." I snorted, shifting in my bed. "I couldn't?—"
"Couldn't move? Or couldn't bring yourself to want to?" His smile was a taunting thing.
"You're sick."
"And you're a little twisted.” His eyes glittered. I simply stared at him, unable to form words. The fucking nerve of this man.
His gaze narrowed. "Such a fascinating contradiction. The killer who melts when someone shows her exactly how powerless she can be."
I managed a scoff.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Morvaren. Some find such dynamics liberating."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're trembling," he observed.
"I'm furious," I managed.
His hand circled my wrist. "Your body doesn't lie as prettily as your mouth does."
The silence that followed was suffocating. I hated myself. Hated the way I melted under his touch.
“Careful now.” His voice turned mocking. “I’d hate for you to bring the sky down on my Bone Spire.”
I wanted to scream.
“That racing heart of yours isn't conducive to healing." He rose, straightening his vest. "Rest well, starling. I'm quite looking forward to seeing what else you're capable of."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with silk sheets and a pulse that wouldn't slow down.
The door opened without a knock,pulling me from sleep.
"Sepsis," Miria announced, her voice sweeping through the room. "Another day and you'd have lost the leg, possibly your life."
I opened my eyes to find her at the foot of the bed, golden hair seeming to hold its own light. Her skin carried that faint luminescence that marked the divine.
"I'm fine," I lied, my body feeling hollow.
"Of course you are." She moved to my injured leg. "That's why the wound is weeping pus and your fever spiked high enough to have Xül demand I come immediately."
She knelt beside the bed, her fingers never quite touching the bandage as it unraveled at her will. "This will hurt," she informed me, voice matter-of-fact.
The cloth pulled away from flesh that had tried to heal around it. I bit down hard enough to taste blood, refusing to scream. The wound ran from mid-calf to ankle, edges livid red, weeping yellow fluid.
Pearl-white light emanated from her palms. The healing felt like being unmade and remade—fire pouring through my veins as tissue knit itself together at an impossible speed. Every nerve ending in my body ignited at once.
"Your brother wasn't quite so terribly afflicted," Miria said conversationally. "A few scratches here and there."
Through the haze of pain, I registered her words. "You've seen Thatcher?"
"In Bellarium. This morning." The light intensified.
"Thank you for healing us both."
