Page 89 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Forty-Nine

Samuel

S amuel stared out the window, eyes half closed at the pounding in his head, watching the flurries continue to fall, a near endless snowfall that had continued to paint Dameral in the days after the attack on the Blood Treasury.

The roofs of the capital were covered in a thin, plush layer of white, a stark contrast to the dark slush that lined the cobblestones below.

From his vantage point above, it almost looked lovely, but Samuel had lived in those streets, had made his way across the slick patches of black ice and the muck that dripped from the awnings.

The noble Lords and Ladies, the Blood Workers of means and influence, they could tuck away in their homes, cozied up in front of the fire with a mug of warm drinking chocolate in their hands, but everyone else?

They had to trudge through the filth and the slush, unable to ignore their responsibilities and their lives, their fortunes hanging by a thread.

It was strange that Samuel missed those times, when he would hug his ratty coat tighter to him, but after nearly two days of recuperation in one of Alaric’s private suites, he would have given near anything to go back to the way things had been.

But he couldn’t—he was stuck here, waiting for hells knew what, trapped in his own gilded cage.

Oh, it was all for his own good, for the lingering migraine that refused to abate and the aches that echoed through his entire body, but it chafed at him to know that while Isaac and Anton and the others were all out there, working to turn their rebellion into outright revolution, he was stuck here.

Resting in comfort.

It was lovely little room, a small but lavish bedroom complete with finely made furniture and its own washroom.

A grand wardrobe was filled with comfortable and well-made clothes, including the velvet robe that Samuel wrapped himself in.

The far wall had a bookshelf filled with books, adventure novels and romances, historical treatises and even a few beginner’s tomes on Blood Working.

Samuel had ignored the books, having spent most of his time lying in the bed.

It was as plush and soft as the one in his own home, and Samuel sank into the mattress, wrapped in blankets to block out the chill that the empty fireplace let seep into the room.

But the nest he had built for himself wasn’t enough to ease the relentless throbbing in his skull, even the sweet relief of sleep escaping him as he curled up on his side, caught in an unending pool of pain.

The silence was the only relief, as Samuel had been left alone for the most part.

There was the sweet-natured healer who had tended to him on the first day, an older woman who treated him with all the kindness of a mother, but sadly was unable to do anything.

The Blood Working slipped off him, running off him like water, repelled by something twisted and ruined within him.

Whatever the King had done to him had left him broken in ways that they did not even understand yet.

After that, it had only been Isaac, stopping by in regular intervals, always bringing with him simple soups, brushing Samuel’s hair from his face and trying to coax him to eat. Like he did now, sitting next to him on the chair, a half-full bowl in hand, the spoon held up in offering.

The meal should have been appetizing, a rich soup of chicken and herbs, thickened with rice and flavored with spices.

Before this, he would have loved it, but now he could barely bring himself to eat at all.

The nausea was too much, bile twisting in his gut as the too rich food assaulted his palate, the pungent aroma of lemon and ginger overwhelming, the little bit he managed sitting like a heavy stone in his stomach.

He leaned away, pressing his forehead against the cool glass as his eyes slid closed. The chill was soothing, and Samuel wanted nothing more than to melt into it. “Enough, please.”

“Well, it was more than last time.” Isaac sighed, but he did place the bowl to the side, the spoon clattering just loud enough to send spikes of pain stabbing into the tender points in the back of Samuel’s head. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Samuel groaned his acquiescence, and Isaac wrapped his arm around his lower back, easing him off the seat. It wasn’t quite a full carry, but still Isaac took on most of Samuel’s weight, lifting him like he was nothing as he tottered his way back to the bed.

Had Isaac always been this strong? Was it a side effect of him becoming a manananggal?

Had he bit his own cheek, using Blood Working to enhance his strength?

If he had, Samuel couldn’t sense it. There could be magic fluttering all around him, slipping into his veins, sinking into his bones, and he still wouldn’t know, would never know it again.

He had thought himself Unblooded for so long, had not realized that the dark power deep within had been Blood Working.

Though he had precious little time with it, unfiltered and unrestrained, it had still been a part of him for his whole life, lingering at the edges of his consciousness, there even when he had not noticed it.

But now there was nothing, just silence as Samuel moved through the world, like cotton stuffed in his ears, deadening his senses.

Oh, he could feel Isaac’s touch, the warmth of his body pressed against his.

Could smell the soft, pine scent of soap on his skin, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke on his clothes.

But there was still a distance between them, a preternatural awareness that he knew he would never feel again ripped away.

He had been a fool to think that Isaac had truly stripped him of his power all those months ago. He thought he had known what emptiness was, but it had only been a gap into which his natural Blood Working had flowed. It was temporary, small, and nothing compared to the truth.

He would be empty forever, and the only thing left in him was pain.

Isaac helped him back to the bed, eased the soft robe off his shoulders. Samuel only wore a thin pair of sleeping trousers underneath it, but Isaac didn’t look on him with heat or lust—just tenderness, freely and openly given.

“Lie down, darling,” Isaac whispered, brushing a tender kiss against Samuel’s temple. “I’ll be right back.”

Samuel heard him puttering about, hanging the robe back in the wardrobe, putting the half-finished meal out in the hallway for the servant to collect, the soft rustle of something that he couldn’t quite place.

Samuel just breathed in, slow and deep, and out again, waiting for the world to stop tilting.

The bed dipped as Isaac slid in behind him, his weight and his warmth a comfort that felt too good to be real. As Isaac snuggled up against his back, arm draped over his middle, Samuel realized Isaac had shed his shirt and binder. Nestling in as if to sleep.

“Isaac,” Samuel breathed, even as he softened against him. It was comforting, being held like this, Isaac wrapping around him like a satisfying weight pressing against his aching bones. “Don’t you have things to do?”

“Not tonight,” Isaac replied, his lips warm against the tender point behind his ear. “So let me take care of you.”

Samuel shook his head, only to immediately regret the action, the sudden spike of pain ricocheting through his head like marbles shaken in a glass jar. Clattering and sharp, spinning in endless coils, round and round again.

Isaac noticed immediately, his hand coming to up to massage at the achingly tender spot where Samuel’s neck met his skull. The discomfort surged as Isaac’s thumb dug in, pressing on the inflamed skin, but it quickly ebbed into an almost pleasant throb.

It became just nearly tolerable.

Samuel melted into it, boneless as a cat in front of a fire, as Isaac continued to tend to him. Strong hands roamed his shoulders and neck, easing the tension away. But Samuel feared the moment Isaac stopped and the pain returned.

“Will it ever go away?” Samuel breathed. The words came out with a whimper, his tears dropping to the pillowcase in fat drops, but Samuel didn’t have the energy to feel shame.

Isaac hesitated, then, “Celeste said the migraine has to run its course. But it will pass.” He said it with such conviction, such hope, that Samuel didn’t fight it, even though they both knew it wasn’t so simple.

The unknown probability that hovered between them, the warning the Blood Healer had given.

That migraines were a terrible affliction, that it could become a chronic condition, that this could become the rest of Samuel’s life, days split between unending suffering and the life that he wanted so desperately to live.

And there was so much work to do.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, words catching in his throat.

“You don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for this.

” He trembled, but Isaac didn’t censure him for it, didn’t try to shush away his fears or pretend that things were better than they were.

And as coddled as he was, Samuel appreciated that—the past two days he had been treated with all the care of a young child, unable to face the dark realities that waited just outside the window.

And he was so tired of being patronized.

Somewhere out there, Bart had taken over the remains of Shan’s network. Somewhere out there, Anton was working with Alaric and Maia to solidify their next steps. Somewhere out there, Shan was…

He didn’t even know, and that hurt the most. Not knowing what had happened to her after Isaac had whisked him away to safety. Not knowing if she had even survived the fall.