Page 48 of Of Rime and Ruin (Sirens of Adria #2)

Chapter forty-five

Nahla

We don’t talk about what happened.

I recall bits and pieces. Me, in shock. Aethan, in terror. Pain. Deep, fleshy pain. Water parts around my body. Our mental link dilutes. A flash of cold wind, then the sound of creaking metal gates. Bare hands clutch me to a firm chest. A racing heart, battering ribs.

His heart. I can feel it aching.

I reach for his face.

But it’s not Aethan’s face, anymore. It’s the healer. Lucas. Dark, glinting eyes. Cocky smile. He labors over my wounds, forehead dotted with sweat, golden tendrils weaving in and out of my flesh like warm needles.

More pain.

I scream.

Somewhere, wood cracks. Splinters. Falls. The king is angry.

His emotions brush my conscience. I feel his pain, too.

Pain, everywhere.

I swallow my screams so he can’t hear them.

Then it’s done. Lucas wraps my torso in gauze, just in case, but the bleeding is over. Fresh pink scars stripe my ribs on both sides.

Right as the tides, as Deirdre tells me so chipperly. She helps me to my room and tucks me into bed. All fixed.

But he does not follow me. With each step I take, our connection weakens. Then severs.

The door closes. The lock turns from the outside.

And I am alone.

***

Escape is impossible. Iron bars block the window in my room, fashioned with gaps too small to squeeze my body through. I’ve tugged at every floorboard, every crack in the wall, and to no avail—there are no trap doors, no secret passages that might ferry me away from here.

It’s been two days since I’ve seen the king. Or seen anything but the interior of this embellished prison. Like it’s my fault.

Maybe it is.

Pain has a funny way of blotting out the details, right when it matters.

Once again, Perrin is my only company. Sort of. He guards my door with a stubborn scowl, trying hard not to break character, and relays gifts from the king—hot chocolate, wool slippers, a stack of romance books. Apologies passed from the king, but never the king himself.

Does Aethan regret what we did? The intimacy? The way our minds linked and synchronized, the shared climax of our pleasure…

I don’t.

It was the best moment of my fucking life. I frequently wake with my hand between my legs, trying and failing to relive that feeling. Because he’s never going to fuck me like that again.

Maybe he’s right. It is all my fault. I provoked him. Encouraged him. Wanted it so badly he finally caved to my dangerous request.

What a mad thing to do, trying to fuck a clawbeast. By all means, it makes sense to lock me up. I’m a danger to the king, and a danger to myself. So I stay in bed. I burrow beneath a mountain of furs and soft blue pillows and pray to all the gods who listen to absolve me of my embarrassment.

The king regrets me.

I feel it in my bones.

I hear it in the way Deirdre speaks to me when she brings my morning tea. The distance in her voice. The apologetic kindness in her eyes.

Day three of this shit.

“Sugar, Your Highness?” she asks. The porcelain lid clinks next to my ear. She’s standing beside my bed, her tray likely balanced on the end table.

I pull the covers higher overhead, retreating from the light of her candle. “No thank you, Deirdre.” The pillow muffles my voice.

“Come now. You need a little something to cheer you up, hmm? How about some cream?”

“Just leave the tray. I can fix it myself.”

Pressure dips the mattress as she sits on the edge. Her hand lands on top of my head, heavy through the layers of blankets.

“Are you feeling any better this morning?” Her fingers rustle at the hem, curling around the fabric, tugging it to let cool air through the opening.

“No.”

Salt stings the corners of my eyes. I ball my fists into the covers, holding them over my face. I can’t let her see me like this. How fucking embarrassing.

This is not princess-like behavior, hiding from the hurt. I should be upright and active, none of this moping, depressed lumpiness—Winona would be appalled. If she were in my place, my sister would take the king’s rejection without more than a blink, then move on to her next project.

Then again, she ended up hitched to that boring lump of a male, Ferrell. At least my fate is better than hers, in that regard. I’d take one devastating tangle with the clawbeast over a life stuck with Ferrell.

And that’s all it was—a tangle. Like our time in the ice-shelter was hypothermia-induced sex. It meant nothing.

My heart squeezes so tight I can’t breathe.

It meant nothing.

I stuff the pillow into my mouth to keep quiet. My shoulders tremble and quake.

I’m a bald-faced liar. It wouldn’t hurt this much if he meant nothing to me.

Somehow, I’ve fallen for the grumpy Frost King.

Now I’m no better than a love-sick guppy, pining over a male who doesn’t want me.

If he did, he’d be here. Tending to my wounds.

Telling me I’ll be okay. He’d be bringing me tea himself, not sending his housekeeper.

The mattress shifts. Deirdre sighs. Moments later, I hear her retreating footsteps, the turn of the doorknob, and her quiet report to Perrin in the hallway.

“Is she still in bed?” Perrin whispers, not quietly enough.

“Poor thing hasn’t moved an inch.”

“Shit.”

“Watch your language, love.”

“Sorry,” Perrin mutters. I smile, despite myself. The youngling’s picking up my favorite word. “I just wish he would—”

“His Majesty has his reasoning.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Chin up, Perrin. He gave you an important post. You should be honored.”

“I didn’t know it’d be this boring,” he mumbles.

Ouch.

Deirdre hisses something too low to hear. And then it’s over. Her footsteps retreat down the hall, and Perrin’s body slumps against the wall.

I pull the covers away from my face. Daylight filters through the crack in the curtains, cutting a line across my pillow. The stale air evaporates the tears from my cheeks. It’s not Perrin’s fault I’m imprisoned, and I’m being a shit friend.

I should at least talk to him. Maybe we could have a burping contest through the door. Or something . It’d be a good distraction for me, to avoid spiraling further into my pit of despair.

With a groan, I peel myself from the bed. Slip into my robe and tie the sash. I plant my feet on the cool wooden slats, my back creaks, and I sway with dizziness. How long has it been since I ate? My stomach lets out a hollow whine, and I clutch it.

Deirdre left toast with my tea, the butter hardened in a perfect rectangle on top. Cold. I pluck it from the plate and bite through the stiff crust as I walk to the door.

Pain flares in my side, spazzing along my scars.

Shit.

I stagger and clutch my ribs, dropping the toast. My skin itches and crawls beneath dry, puckered scabs.

I rub at the gauze, unsatisfied. The itch intensifies.

I rip through the gauze, tearing it from my body.

With a fingernail, I slip beneath the edge of my scab. My eyelids flutter closed. So itchy.

I dig harder. Deeper. My nails collect dry scales beneath them. I drop to my knees, relishing the sweet sting of relief. So fucking itchy.

An iron scent fills the air. I tear my hands away and stare at them. There’s blood under my nails. My stomach twists. What is wrong with me? Am I so fucking bored that making myself bleed sounded like fun?

I scrunch my eyes tight and swallow my pride.

“Perrin!” I groan.

The door flies open. “Nahla?”

Light pierces in from the hallway, and I raise my hand to block it from my straining eyes. Perrin crutches toward me as quickly as he can manage. Crouching on the floor, he inspects my hands with gentle fingers and frowns as he rotates my wrist and presses two fingers into my pulse.

“Shit, Nahla, what did you do to yourself?” His gaze lands on the discarded toast, butter-down on the rug. The torn gauze.

“You can’t be saying that shit,” I say. “You’re a Frost Guard.”

He shoots me a look. “You’re bleeding, and you’re worried about my vocabulary? You’re just as bad as Aunt Deirdre, I swear to the goddess.”

“I got… itchy.” Blush creeps up my neck, hot. I’m a mess. No wonder Aethan doesn’t want me.

Tears flood my lower eyelids, beading beneath my vision. Perrin pulls me into a hug, tucking me against his chest. He smells of leather and salt and sweat.

“Aw, Nahla. Don’t cry on me,” he murmurs. “This is my good uniform.”

Too fucking late, Perrin. The pressure in my chest builds and bursts. My tears bubble over, and I hiccup as a sob trembles through me. How embarrassing.

He pats my back awkwardly.

I sob harder. My fingers twist into his uniform, smearing blood. He lets me cry for a while, sitting there like he’s made of stone while my tears and blood stain his shirt.

I don’t know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s the boredom of the past few days in captivity. Maybe it’s the residual sting of Aethan’s rejection. Or maybe I’m sick of this whole damn show. I want to go home .

I shouldn’t even be here.

The old way-maker, Keen, told me to make a life for myself, and this is where I ended up. Bawling on the floor over a little cracked scab. I’d be better off married to that damn Coral Prince.

“Should I fetch Lucas?” Perrin whispers. “For the bleeding?”

I release his shirt and nod, sniffing the snot back into my nose. “Okay.”

Perrin gives me one more awkward pat, then slinks out of the room, leaving me once again alone.

Alone.

The tears build again, hot and angry. Fuck you, Aethan. Fuck your castle. Fuck your hot fucking chocolate. Your snowbears, your staff, and your overstuffed pillows. And fuck me the worst, for wanting it all to be mine.