Page 27 of Claimed In Darkness

27

NAIRA

T he only thing keeping him standing is me.

Zephiran leans too much into my side, his body pressing against me as we move through the underground passageways, breath hot and ragged against my neck.

His body shudders with every step, his muscles trembling, the curse still eating him from the inside out.

His father’s mark lingers in his bones, his skin, his soul.

It’s like a sickness clinging to his flesh, like a second shadow curling in the dark.

And despite every warning in my head, despite every reminder that this man is a monster, that he is the reason I’m here, the reason I can never go back?—

I hold onto him.

Because if he collapses, I know damn well he won’t get back up.

The tunnels are damp, smelling of wet stone and old blood, the stench of the city’s filth seeping through the cracks above us.

We’re running on borrowed time.

The High Council’s dogs will be sniffing us out by dawn.

We need somewhere to hide.

Somewhere to breathe.

But right now, the only thing I care about is keeping Zephiran on his feet.

If he falls, he might not get up again.

And for reasons I can’t afford to examine?—

I can’t let that happen.

We stumble into a dimly lit chamber, an abandoned hideout in the undercity.

The door slams shut behind us, sealing us into the silence, the suffocating heat, the stench of sweat and desperation.

Zephiran collapses against the nearest wall, sliding down until his legs are sprawled out before him, chest rising in uneven, labored breaths.

His face is too pale, his lips slightly parted, sweat dampening the dark strands of his hair.

His body shakes.

I’ve seen him fight, break, rip men apart like they were nothing.

But I have never seen him like this.

Vulnerable.

Weak.

And I don’t like it.

"Stay with me," I murmur, kneeling beside him, fingers reaching for his wrist.

The moment I touch him, his body jerks, his breath shuddering.

His pulse is too fast.

Too unstable.

The curse is still sinking its claws into him, still pulling him under. I need to do something.

Anything.

My fingers hover over the collar of his tunic, over the burning marks seared into his flesh.

A brand.

A reminder.

A fucking leash.

His father’s voice still lingers in my ears, thick with cruel amusement.

"You were never destined to be free, boy."

I grit my teeth, shoving the memory aside.

Zephiran groans softly, his head tilting back, exposing the sharp line of his throat.

"Still… don’t take orders well, do you?" he murmurs, voice hoarse.

I glare.

"Shut the fuck up," I snap. "You’re dying."

His lips curve slightly, a weak, exhausted smirk.

"Not this time."

Bastard.

I press my fingers against his pulse again.

Still too fast.

Still too wrong.

Think, Naira.

The High Council will have every healer, every dark elf, every goddamn seer looking for us.

We can’t go to a doctor.

Can’t risk being seen.

Which means?—

There’s only one way to help him.

I curse under my breath, dragging my dagger from my belt.

Zephiran eyes flicker open, the dim candlelight catching in his crimson gaze.

"Planning to finish the job?" he rasps.

I drag the blade across my palm, fast and deep.

A sharp sting.

Then warmth.

Blood beads against my skin, thick and crimson, glistening in the firelight.

His gaze locks onto it immediately.

His breath stutters.

"You have to be fucking joking," he mutters.

I press my hand against his chest, against the still-burning brand, letting my blood seep into the wound.

Magic shudders through the air.

His body tenses beneath my touch, muscles locking, teeth clenching as the spell reacts, as the curse resists.

But it’s working.

His skin cools.

His breathing slows. The wild, thrashing magic beneath his ribs starts to settle.

I don’t know why it’s working. It’s instinct. I just know.

As if someone told me.

I don’t understand what my blood has to do with his curse.

But right now, I don’t care.

I just need him alive.

His chest rises sharply, his lips parting, a choked sound spilling free.

I feel the slow, unsteady pull of magic between us, the way my blood seeps into the mark, the way it soothes something ancient, something violent.

Too fucking slowly, he exhales.

His body slumps.

His pulse steadies.

The curse stops fighting.

And when his eyes flutter open again, they are looking directly at me.

The tension in the room shifts.

The space seems to overflow with tension.

Charged.

His hand lifts, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, still slick with my blood, still pressed against his chest.

His skin is fever-hot beneath my touch. Our gazes lock.

Something else flickers between us.

Not anger nor power.

Something we both don’t want to figure out.

"Tell me," he murmurs, voice low, raw, curling against my ears like a dark confession.

"Was that mercy?"

I swallow hard, refusing to move.

Refusing to let go.

"It was a bargain," I whisper.

His grip tightens, his breath warming my lips.

"A bargain?"

I nod.

"You don’t die. And in return?—"

I lean in, just enough to make sure he hears me, just enough to taste the heat on his breath.

"You tell me the fucking truth."

His eyes flash.

For a second, I think he’s going to refuse. To fight me.

To push me away, to smirk, to say something cruel and deflective and infuriating.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts a hand, the tips of his fingers skimming down my throat, across my collarbone.

Unhurried.

Measured.

Possessive.

And when he speaks, his voice is nothing but a hushed, broken admission.

"I can’t."