Page 53 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)

Consciousness returned in jagged pieces, like shards of broken glass grinding behind my eyes.

I was cold, a deep, penetrating chill that had settled into my bones.

And wet. My head throbbed with a pain so immense it felt like my skull was trying to split apart.

I was lying on something soft—my feathered cloak, I realised.

The whispers swirled in the haze, no longer seductive, but sharp and mocking.

She should have left you. A warrior would have. Slit your throat and taken her freedom.

Through the delirium, I saw her.

She was there, kneeling a few feet away, her back to me. Her shoulders were tense, her movements jerky and frantic as she tried to coax a spark from the damp tinder she’d gathered.

She will leave you, the voices whispered, seizing on my weakness. She will take her chance and leave you to rot.

I tried to tell them they were wrong, tried to call her name, but all that escaped my throat was a pained rasp. It was enough. She spun around, her face pale with exhaustion and fear. The angry red welts on her throat stood out starkly against her skin, a brand I had inadvertently placed there.

She scrambled to my side, her small hand pressing against my forehead. Her touch was cool, a fleeting relief against my burning skin. “Gods, you’re on fire,” she murmured, her voice a mixture of anger and genuine concern.

I was helpless. A creature of shadow rendered useless by the sun and a blow to the head.

She was my captive, yet here she was, my protector.

My anchor. The world dissolved into a swirling grey mist, and as the darkness took me again, my last coherent thought was that I would burn the world to ash before I ever let her go.

She saves you only to kill you herself , the whispers hissed, trying to find purchase in my delirium. She will wait until you are weakest.

But as she wrapped my cloak tighter around my shivering body, her brow furrowed in concentration, I knew they were wrong.

This wasn't the calculation of a prisoner.

This was the grim loyalty of a mate. And as the darkness pulled me under again, a new thought, sharp and clear, cut through the fever. She is not just my anchor. I am hers.

I drifted on a black tide, the pain a distant shore.

Time ceased to be a line and became a series of disconnected moments.

I was aware of the rain, a constant, miserable drumming that seemed to seep into my very bones.

I was aware of her movements—the scrape of stone, the rustle of wet leaves, the low, frustrated curses she muttered under her breath.

Each sound was a lifeline, pulling me back from the silent void that beckoned.

A fragile warmth bloomed against my cheek.

I forced my eyes open a crack and saw her face, illuminated by the guttering flame of a tiny, hard-won fire.

She was huddled over it, shielding it from the wind with her own body, her expression a mask of fierce concentration.

She had not run. She had stayed. She had made fire in a drowned world for a man who had taken everything from her.

She was fighting. For us.

I tried to push myself up, to assert some control, but a wave of dizziness slammed me back down. A groan escaped my lips, and she was instantly at my side, pressing a damp cloth to my forehead.

"Stay still, you idiot," she muttered, her voice rough but not unkind. "You've got a hole in your head the size of a coin. You're lucky you're not dead."

Her face was close, her eyes—the colour of warm earth—were filled with a frustration that felt far too intimate for a captor and her prisoner.

I could see the fine lines of exhaustion around them, the smudge of dirt on her cheek.

I wanted to reach out, to wipe it away, to feel the warmth of her skin under my thumb.

My hand moved, sluggish and clumsy, but she caught it, her fingers wrapping around mine. The contact was a jolt, a spark of clarity in the fever-dream.

"Don't," she said, her voice softening. "Just rest."

Her fingers were warm around my own, a small, solid anchor in the swirling chaos of the fever. I clung to her hand as if it were the only thing keeping me from being swept away entirely. The whispers tried to twist the moment into something ugly, something weak.

She pities you. Her mercy is a weapon she will use against you.

But the poison in their words couldn’t touch the simple truth of her touch. She was here. She had not left.

Through the haze of pain, I saw her other hand go to the waterskin.

She lifted my head with surprising strength, bringing the skin to my cracked lips.

The water was cool, trickling down my raw throat, a small miracle in the midst of this waking nightmare.

Her face was drawn and gaunt - she did not know how to hunt, and she had not eaten in several days, I guessed.

Dark circles lay under her warm brown eyes suggesting she’d had little sleep either.

My gaze fell to the dark bruises circling her neck, a map of my own violence against her.

The sight sent a fresh wave of something—not rage, but a sharp, aching possessiveness that was indistinguishable from shame.

I had hurt her. I had almost killed her. And still, she stayed.

“Aeveth,” I breathed, the name a ragged prayer. My throat was raw, and the word was barely audible over the hiss of the rain on the fire.

Her grip on my hand tightened. “What?” she asked, leaning closer. “What is it?”

I wanted to tell her. I wanted to explain the pull, the bond, the madness in my own head that only she seemed to quiet. I wanted to thank her. But the words were a tangled knot in my fever-addled brain, impossible to unravel.

“I need… need…”

“What do you need?”

“Need you… close…”

She smiled and I stared up at her, unable to tear my eyes away from the sheer beauty of it.

I had not seen her smile before. Warmth blossomed in my chest, spreading through my body, and my heart raced as she lifted the cloak and slid alongside me, pulling my arms round her.

She rested her hand on my chest and laid her head on my shoulder.

The simple act of her presence was a balm more potent than any healing draught.

Her warmth seeped into my chilled bones, a slow, spreading tide that pushed back the fever’s icy grip.

The whispers, which had been a frantic, mocking chorus moments before, faded into a stunned silence.

They had no power here, in the circle of her arms.

Her head rested on my shoulder, her breath a soft, steady rhythm against my skin. It was the most peaceful sound I had ever heard. The knot of pain and madness in my soul began to loosen, strand by strand, until there was only the steady beat of her heart against my ribs.

“Sleep now, Aeveth,” I murmured, pressing my lips to her hair. She didn't respond, already lost in dreams. As I allowed myself to drift away, I found myself hoping that she dreamed of me.