Page 36 of Dreams and Dragon Wings (Clean Fairytales for Adults #2)
But still, I shake my head. “Not without you,” I whisper.
Tears gather in my eyes. I never want this dream to end. I don’t want to go back.
I don’t want to leave him here.
My thumb brushes the curve of his cheek, savoring whatever scant moments together we have left. “Not alone.”
His hand captures mine and presses my palm tighter against the side of his face, holding it steady. Gazing deeply into my eyes, he promises, “You, Aurelia Weaver, are never alone.”
I awaken to the burn of emerald boring into mine. To the sight of Malice’s lean face hovering above me, watching me sleep.
A scream hitches in my throat as I twitch away from him, scrambling sideways across the mattress.
I do not make it far, though, before the heavy chains wrapped in Spirit binding my ankles together snap taut.
Pain radiates up my left leg, turning my stomach.
My vision swims. The room tilts for a moment.
When next I blink, Malice stands by the hearth.
“I did not mean to frighten you,” he rumbles, his words doing little to soothe my racing pulse. “My minion merely brought word that you are fading, and I wished to see for myself.”
I twitch the blankets higher, tucking them in around my chin so that the only portion of me he can see is my face.
He frowns. “It would seem we have gotten off to a bad start.”
I can’t help but laugh at those all-too-familiar words, pitiful sound though the sound is. “Are you related to Friedemar by chance?” I rasp, my throat dry. I need water.
Malice’s frown deepens. “Do not insult me when I am trying to apologize.”
With a snap of his fingers, the double doors leading out of my room swing open, and a procession of goblins marches in, carrying trays of food, buckets of water, and boxes in varying sizes.
Though Rowan is among them, he makes a point not to look my way as he sets his own box down on the end of the bed, opens it to reveal the glittering array of jewelry within, and shambles off.
Malice continues. “You will eat and drink to your heart’s content. You will bathe and dress in one of the gowns provided. And then you will knock on the doors to let Grime and Ghoul know when you are ready to join me. There is something I would like to show you.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, glancing around the room. What I truly wish to do is reject all these gifts, to snarl that I will never wish to join him. But if I do not play along, how will I ever steal an opportunity to return to the tower again?
Not to mention that strange dream of mine—all this talk of loving one’s enemies rather than hating them. Was my conscience trying to tell me something?
Was the Great Weaver?
“What about the chains?” I ask, looking back Malice’s way.
“The chains stay.”
I purse my lips, suddenly reluctant to ask my next question. But I must.
Softer still, I wonder aloud, “And what about my leg?”
Another feline smile curves Malice’s lips.
“The moment you undo whatever you did to ensure I cannot touch you, I will be glad to tend to your leg, my dear. I am somewhat skilled in the herbal arts.” His nose wrinkles when he confesses, “A compromise I had to make when I never seemed able to so much as weave Earth.”
“Very well,” I whisper, trying not to let my panic show.
How can I possibly undo it when I don’t know what I did in the first place to ensure he cannot touch me?
Malice waits for a few moments more, a heavy silence settling between us. But when I do not say or do anything further, his mouth twists, a flicker of irritation passing across his face.
“Everyone out!” he shouts to his goblins as he makes for the exit.
They scatter before him like a flock of frightened chickens.
“Do not keep me waiting long, feyra ,” Malice snarls at me on his way out, slamming the double doors behind him. The key scrapes in the lock, imprisoning me once more.
The moment I am alone, I sigh, exhaustion still weighing heavily upon me. I sleep so much, and yet I seem to be no better for it.
My eyes skim about my bedchamber, taking in every chest of what I can only assume are new clothes, every plate of food, every bucket of water. Am I supposed to use those buckets to drink or bathe?
Perhaps both?
However will I manage to carry myself, the buckets, and the chains binding my ankles all the way to the attached bathing room? I suppose I can use Air to manage the buckets. But Malice’s Spirit weave on the chains ensures I cannot use threads of Air to lift them.
The very thought exhausts me further, leaving me reaching for the nearest box at hand rather than seeing to the far more important matter of taking care of myself. I grasp for the jewelry box Rowan brought to me and drag it closer.
So many fine jewels sparkle within. Opals that shine like living flame.
Pearls dripping in shadow. And many more gemstones I cannot recognize at first glance.
Necklaces, earrings, bracelets. But when I finally reach the bottom of the box, my fingers brush against something that is not a piece of jewelry at all.
It is a jar. A small, green jar containing some salve. A note rests beneath it—a mere scrap of ripped paper with three almost illegible words scrawled across it in a shaky hand:
For the leg.
Rowan .
My heart swells. I hardly dare to believe it as I remove the jar’s lid and scoop up a bit of the salve with my fingertips.
Twitching aside my blanket and the skirt of my nightgown, I reveal the mess that is now my left calf. Angry red flesh swells around my wound. Puffy. Tender.
I bite down hard on my bottom lip, fighting to keep from crying out as I gingerly dab a bit of the salve on the injury. But I do not have to fight for long. The effect is almost immediate, to the point I cannot help but wonder if the salve is infused with a bit of Earth magic as well as herbs.
My eyelashes flutter as cool relief washes over me, as the redness of my skin lessens, as the heat dissipates, as the swelling decreases. My flesh does not immediately knit itself back together as it would have if Bene had healed me, but already I feel better. Stronger.
Strong enough to face what must come next.