Page 20 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

ARROWS

Of course, it’s a fucking dragon.

“It’s asleep,” Isla says. I feel her fear warring with fascination. She’s not sure if she should be afraid.

She should be very afraid.

Dragons are cruel creatures that rely heavily on their training. If the thief trained this one to be ruthless, then it will kill us both in a single scalding breath.

She’s right though. For now, it’s asleep.

Isla takes a step toward it, and I have the urge to haul her back, to take her away from this place.

Then I see what she’s stepping toward.

This time, her emotions don’t bleed into mine. They don’t influence mine. Because she is hopeful. She is excited .

“No,” she breathes. “That can’t be—no, that’s too easy, it can’t—”

“It’s the sword.”

We both see it, perched atop a pile of other stolen relics. Glimmering. Two blades, intertwined, curved around each other. It is undeniably the one we’ve been looking for.

I should feel bone-melting relief, knowing that the key to stopping the dreks and saving my people is just a few feet away.

But all I feel is dread.

Isla has no idea. I feel her excitement, her joy, and it makes me want to stab myself with my own blade.

“We just have to sneak past it without waking it,” she says, as if it’s easy. “That’s it.”

I have the sudden urge to dissuade her. To abandon this plan completely. “And if it does wake, it will char us alive.”

It isn’t worth the risk, I tell myself.

I can’t use my powers this close to the sword. But getting past the dragon without them could be impossible.

She steps forward, and I have no other choice but to follow her, my heart in my throat, as she inches toward impending danger.

The arrow comes out of nowhere.

I’m on her in a moment. It is instinct to throw myself between her and any danger. I pin her to the ground as arrows skewer my body, one by one, cutting through skin and muscle, making me lurch forward.

She looks up at me, her eyes widening in fear. In horror . She opens her mouth to scream, but my hand smothers her lips before she can wake the dragon.

Our eyes locked, I barely feel the pain as arrow after arrow pierces my back, all the way through my chest, nearly deep enough to reach hers.

She looks so confused. Like she’s wondering why I would throw myself in front of her without question.

As I’m pierced through a dozen times, all I can think is, I would gladly be your shield. I would gladly be your sword .

I am your enemy ... but I am also yours.

The arrows stop. She’s panting, her chest almost meeting mine with each breath—almost meeting the arrow tips. She’s studying my wounds.

My blood is puddling onto her. There’s a single arrow embedded in her leg. I curse myself for not being fast enough to take all of them.

I should never have let her go first.

She reaches up to drag my hand from her lips. “Portal away,” she whispers, voice trembling.

She is afraid for me. She thinks I might die. She’s choosing me over the sword ...

No . I shake my head, then push to my knees. I lift her into my arms and stand.

Twelve arrows through my chest, I carry her out of the cave.

The pain is nothing compared to the fear of seeing that first arrow hurtling toward her. My heart lives outside my body now, it seems.

It is so fragile .

We make it far enough away from the sword for me to portal us back into my room. Finally, when she’s safe, the pain and blood loss catch up with me. I collapse.

I faintly hear her scurrying around. Opening drawers. Closing them. I feel her panic, sharp and sour, flooding the room.

I manage to open my eyes and see her kneeling next to me, her worry apparent. “I’m going to—”

“Do it.”

She snaps the first arrow, and I curse. Pain might be useful, but it is annoying .

She skillfully slides the arrow out, then splashes some of her healing solution she’s portaled in on me, and I bellow. I want to tell her not to waste it on me. I’ll be fine. It’s her I’m worried about.

“Well, you have about another dozen of those, so you better toughen up,” she says, partially echoing my words from before. “Or did you forget that pain is useful ?”

My anger is a distraction from the pain, and perhaps that was her intention.

“Don’t mock me,” I say, baring my teeth at her. “It’s true.”

She doesn’t know how true it is.

She rolls her eyes, and I want to throttle her. I want to kiss her.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Hearteater,” I say, flinching as she removes another arrow. “Pain makes you powerful.”

She looks disgusted. Perhaps she should. “It does not. Though, I suppose that’s a very Nightshade thing to believe.”

She thinks I’m lying. She doesn’t believe me.

“No,” I say, half amused, half horrified that she is a ruler and doesn’t know this. “It isn’t an ideal. It’s truth. Emotion feeds power. And pain is the strongest.”

She frowns. I feel her sadness, heavy like rain around me. Then, doubt.

“It is true,” I tell her. I know from experience.

I should have anticipated her next question. It would be the next one I would ask as well.

“Have you ... have you ever purposefully ...”

“Yes,” I admit. “I have purposefully caused myself pain to access deeper levels of power. That was a long time ago. Now, it isn’t so necessary.

” A lie. I might not have physically hurt myself in a while to access power, but I have certainly accessed emotional pain.

I’m not proud of it. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, for the good of my line and my realm.

I will continue to do things I’m not proud of for those same reasons.

“And ... there are many different kinds of pain.”

Her disbelief doesn’t weaken.

“Still doubting me,” I observe. I meet her eyes, forgetting the pain. She needs to understand. For some reason, I need her to understand. “How, Hearteater, do you think I am so powerful?”

My father’s strength paled in comparison to mine, even before the curses. He could cause himself physical harm without issue ... but it was a temporary pain. It’s impossible to feel emotional pain when you don’t care about anything. When you don’t feel at all .

She stares at me like she sees me, perhaps for the first time. She doesn’t flinch.

She doesn’t recoil.

She pulls out another arrow, and I roar.

She removes the rest, and I curse over and over.

I wouldn’t normally do this without draining a bottle of alcohol, but I want to remember it.

Even with the pain ... she is here, watching me, like she cares .

However short-lived her care is, I want to savor it.

I want to remember it long after she is gone.

She helps me remove my shirt, wincing when she sees my body. It makes me laugh.

How long has it been since I’ve laughed ?

“I’ve never had a woman wince at my naked body,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “It must be exhausting carrying around such a magnificent ego.”

That makes me laugh more.

She’s insulted me and I love it. Along with a good amount of blood, I must have also lost my mind in that cave. She applies more healing salve.

“Your leg,” I croak out.

She looks surprised by my concern. “It is already bandaged,” she says, keeping her attention trained on my wounds. She tends to them gingerly, expertly, gently. No one has ever been gentle with me. No one has ever cared this much.

She looks up then. My expression must shock her. “What?” she asks.

“I just think it’s ironic that the hearteater who stabbed me through the chest is now tending to my injuries.”

She gives me a withering look that makes my heart race. “ I think it’s ironic that the demon who claims he has no shred of humanity used himself as a blockade against an army of arrows to save me.”

I did, didn’t I?

And I would do it again without question.

Twelve arrows are nothing , I think.

Nothing , compared to the anguish of senselessly caring so much for my enemy.

When she’s done healing me, she shakes her head, frustrated. “Seriously. Why did you do that?”

It’s a dangerous question, because I did it without a moment’s hesitation. It was instinct, to stand between her and danger.

How ironic that her savior is putting her in the path of the greatest danger of all.

By now, I’ve lost a lot of blood. I can barely keep my head upright as I say, “That’s an interesting way of saying thank you.”

She begins to adjust my bandages, tightening them. Her hands are on my chest, and they are a balm against the ache. Chocolate, making everything sweeter. Keeping me tethered to consciousness. Before she can remove her hands, mine pin hers there.

“The cold, Hearteater,” I say. Her hands are cold, from the weather outside. My voice sounds far away. My head falls back. “It helps the pain.”

She doesn’t move, and I am grateful.

I hate being touched.

Except for when she touches me.

She removes her fingers far too soon. The absence of her touch is almost as painful as the injuries themselves.

And in that moment, I know I would take a thousand arrows for her, if it meant I’d feel her hands on me again.

We have tried every way to get inside the cave, and my purpose has shifted. I’m no longer desperate to get the sword.

I’m desperate to spend time with her. I’m desperate to protect her, to be her shield, to be whatever she needs from me, as long as she will have me.

Because around her ... I feel , for the first time in centuries. I feel everything .

And, for the first time, it doesn’t seem like a bad thing.

We just finished our latest attempt at capturing the sword, and I have run a bath filled with medicine from the Moonling newland. It clouds the water. She glances at it from where she stands in my bedroom.

She’s covered in blood from wounds I couldn’t prevent.

“Stay,” I say, the word falling from my lips.

She looks surprised. “Stay?”

I’ve taken off my shirt. She’s studying my body. “The bath is big enough for two. It will help you not scar.”

She just stares at me.

“I’ll face the other direction.” It will be torture. But I want to heal her more than I want her.

“I can’t. Remember?”

She’s talking about the day I made her agree never to return to my bathroom, as a result of our duel. A foolish command.

“I take back my win. You’re welcome in every part of my palace.” It is treasonous, but I mean it. She fits so well here that the alternative seems strange.

I absorb her shock. Then a startling combination of defiance and curiosity.

Curiosity wins. She steps into the bathroom.

True to my word, I turn around. I remove my pants. I step into the bath. I hold myself very still, even though I can hear her clothing slipping off her body. She makes a small murmur of pain, and my growing desire is quickly replaced by concern.

She groans in relief as she enters the bath, and I’m aware the sound will likely live in the back of my head forever. I force myself to remain still, my knuckles white as I grip the sides of the tub.

“You can turn around,” she says. I don’t move an inch, though my entire body is thrumming with the urge to do exactly that. “The water ... it covers everything.”

I allow a moment to pass. Two. Then, victim to my own diminishing self-control, I turn around.

Beautiful. Just, beautiful.

Her hair falls in waves down her chest, and though her shoulders and collarbones are covered in blood, she is nothing short of extraordinary.

But she is far more than just her beauty.

She has fought side by side with me in the cave. She has healed me. She has challenged me, mocked me, and cared for me.

We stare at each other until the water clears, and Isla tugs her knees to her chest. Her cheeks flush from heat or the self-consciousness she radiates.

I want to tell her that she never has to cover herself, not around me. Not ever.

But I’m silent.

I wish she had my power. I wish she knew instinctively how I felt. I wish all this uncertainty between us could clear like the water.

She looks away, and I step out of the tub before my heart loses its battle with reason.