Page 8 of Impaled by His Omega Prince (Reluctant Fae Princes #2)
Askara
Cilan personally drug Lumic’s body into the dungeons, too lazy to throw him into a cell. Dumb enough to leave him out on a sheet. Askara glanced up from his spot in his cell, heart stuttering.
He was so weak, but watching Lumic fight for a final breath gave him strength. By some strange magic, Askara had heard Lumic’s final words. Save me.
The goddess told him to do what the omega asked, but even if she hadn’t, Askara wanted to.
“Maggie ain’t gonna make it.” Fiskin, the dwarf that had been prisoner as long as Askara, shook his head.
“He’ll live,” Askara said, rising to shaking feet.
“Dunnae struggle, boy. There’ll be others.” Fiskin’s insistence only made Askara more certain that there wouldn’t be others. Lumic was like him, disposed of by his own family, left somewhere prisoner for entertainment. Perhaps death was a kindness, but Askara didn’t want to live alone.
He dragged himself out of his cell. They never bothered locking it. After all, Askara couldn’t leave.
“Lumic,” Askara whispered.
“Oh, just great! Ye’ remembered tha maggie’s name n everything!” Fiskin’s scoff of derisiveness would earn him more than one cruel blow next time they were pitted. Askara made a note of it.
“I have to, Fiskin.” Askara stumbled to kneel beside Lumic, leaning over the male as his hair spilled out, trailing through blood that stained his chest. Askara lifted his shirt to eye the wound and halted.
Filthy letters carved into his chest. Stamel sold me. Traitor.
Askara wondered how much Miree and Ruvaen had taken for him, or if they’d taken a penny at all. They didn’t even tell him goodbye before leaving for their summering estate.
“Live.” Askara bent down and pressed his lips to Lumic’s. Askara averted his gaze as he did so, repulsed by the pink, foaming saliva that trailed the corners of Lumic’s mouth. The soured taste of bile and viscera assaulted Askara’s tongue, but he persisted.
A light golden glow emanated from between their lips. Like always, his vitalis threw a flicker of light, the glow dancing in Lumic’s pretty lashes, the light freckling over his cheeks and highlighting the hair atop his head, as red as any blood robin in the early part of spring.
“Thought ye couldn’t use yer thalms,” Fiskin said, his voice a soft, scathing whisper of awe.
Askara fed Lumic his tongue, the pain of his injury pouring into him. With shaking fingers, Askara covered the wound on Lumic’s chest, fingertips circling the jagged gash in the flesh from where his lifeblood flowed. The wound healed over as a bead of golden light clung to Askara’s fingers. Slowly he pulled his hand back, leaving Lumic unmarked, and just as gently, he placed his fingers over his heart, the golden light fusing with his skin. When the light dimmed, Askara glanced down at the new scar he bore. Where Lumic had first speared him, one that amazingly didn’t heal. “I cannot use my thalms.”
“Then what was tha’?” The dwarf pressed his face between the bars to stare at them as Lumic took a harsh, wet breath full of all the life he almost lost. “Yer not allowed ta have Cilan’s vitalis.”
“I am vitalis.” And Askara could not lie.