Page 94 of Lady of the Drowned Empire

A sob wracked through his chest, as he looked up at me, his forehead beaded with sweat and the skin beneath his eyes purple with exhaustion. He pressed his forehead to mine, as he grabbed my hand, pulling it against his chest.

“Lyr?” he asked, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Did he hurt you?” He pulled back from me, his eyes, frantic with worry, searching mine, before running his hand up my arm, pushing aside my dress straps, swiping my hair back. He was still looking for injuries. Looking for any hidden signs of harm.

I held back the tears ready to fall, and took his hand, halting his search. “Not as much as he hurt you.” I brushed the curls back from his forehead, exposing the scar that ran through his left eyebrow.

Immediately, he pushed his hair back over the scar his father had given him. It had been a blood oath—one that Rhyan had broken the same night his father had murdered his mother.

Tonight had to have been the first time Rhyan had seen his father since he’d left Glemaria, exiled and forsworn. And he’d seen his father holding me. Rhyan would have known in an instant that his father was hurting me. It would have been like me seeing Arianna hurt him. I would have gone feral, too. I practically had just hearing his father speak. Piecing together the smallest understanding of what Rhyan had been through, how he’d been tortured his entire life, had left me feeling more violent than I’d ever felt before.

I took his hand in mine and brought it to my lips. Unbidden, the image of black ropes covering Rhyan’s entire body filled my vision. Having been bound like that for so long would have driven him farther than Lethea. And he’d borne the punishment in silence, all so he could protect me.

“Let’s get you on the bed.” I sat back on my heels and stood, tugging him to his feet. Once I got him seated, I bent down to unlace his boots, slid them off, and tossed them into a corner.

Rhyan stiffened as I reached forward to unbuckle his belt. He remained still, watching me as I removed his weapons along with everything harsh and cold from his body—first his cuffs and the extra sword strapped to his back, then his armor, which I stood to unhook along with his cloak. I took everything away until he was down to his riding pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

At last, I kicked off my own boots and lifted his feet up onto the bed before crawling over him to the side closest to the wall. I laid myself back against his pillows and pulled him to me, and he rested his head against my breast and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“Tonight, you’re going to breathe for me, all right?” I took a deep breath, stroking his hair, full of wild curls.

“All right,” he said, closing his eyes.

“You’re okay. We’re together.”

He nodded against my chest.

We stayed like that for several moments until his breathing calmed and the color returned to his face. I traced the edge of his ear and down the soft skin of his neck before tangling my fingers in his curls and lightly scratching his scalp with my nails. Only now that we were still could I really feel the force of his aura, how cold the room had become, how close he was to unleashing another blizzard.

As I continued to scratch, he seemed to finally return to himself. His arms around me tightened; he wasn’t grasping for me but holding me in return. His aura retreated, the chill in the room fading, and he pulled the extra blanket at the edge of his bed up around us.

“Sorry for that,” he mumbled.

“Don’t apologize.” I kissed his forehead. “You’re allowed to break down. I’m not going anywhere.” I squeezed my arms around him. “Feeling better?”

He pushed himself up and lay down on his side, facing me. I turned on my side as well, shimmying down and laying my head on his pillow so we were eye level.

“What did he do to you?” he asked, his voice still on edge. He reached for my hand again and turned my palm up, examining it. My wrist was reddened, full of finger marks from his father. My skin would be purple by tomorrow.

“He threatened you,” I said, pulling my hand from his. I traced his eyebrow and then the scar, wanting to undo it, to fix it, to take the pain away.

Rhyan recaptured my hand. “He’s always done that.” He pressed a kiss to my palm, taking a shaky breath. “What did he say?”

“A lot.” I swallowed, my throat dry, as I felt his father’s hands on me again and remembered the nonchalant way he’d spoken of coming after Rhyan—and me. “We need to talk. There’s some other things I learned that I didn’t get to tell you last night.”

Rhyan’s eyes met mine, and for a second, they were hooded, his cheeks warming with color as if he were remembering every detail of our very intimate…conversation. Then he propped himself up on his elbow, his expression alert and mouth drawn tight. “Should I be sitting up for this?”

“Maybe.”

We both shifted up, crossing our legs. Rhyan still held my hand with our fingers threaded together. His thumb soothingly stroked my skin.

I finally filled him in on what I’d learned in the last few days. I told him how my mind had suddenly closed off to Morgana’s mind-reading, and so I’d confronted Ramia, and she’d admitted Mercurial was missing. I told him how I’d discovered my mother’s journal. I pulled off my arm cuff, showing him the handwritten note I’d received from my anonymous supporter, signed off with the filing sequence for the scroll.

Rhyan read the tiny parchment twice. He frowned and handed it back to me.

“How do we know you can trust this person?” His jaw tensed.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But it led me to the journal.”

Rhyan was still frowning, one eyebrow furrowed, but he listened intently as I told him about the contents of my mother’s writing, her dreams of the Goddess Asherah, her feeling that Asherah was somehow her daughter, and how much her dream was like Meera’s vision. I told him about her visit to Glemaria and her meeting with his father.