Page 16

Chapter

Fifteen

Loren drifted in and out of consciousness, the darkness ebbing and flowing around him. The shadows brushed over his skin, their cool touch dulling the edge of his pain, though never enough to let him sink completely into oblivion.

The sharp bite of antiseptic cut through the haze, the scent of blood and waste mingling with the astringent, sterile tang of something medicinal. When he shifted, stitches pulled at his skin, hidden beneath layers of clean, white bandages. Someone had dressed his wounds, cared for him.

That was unusual—normally they just left him here to bleed and heal on his own.

Footsteps approached. Light, measured. Already familiar, even though he’d only heard them once before. She was here. She’d come.

Shadows skittered across the floor as keys grated in the lock, their hissing whispers filling his ears like the roar of waves. The aetherlamp flared to life, blinding him as she stepped through the door. It crashed closed on her heels, making her jump and cast a dark look over her shoulder .

“Barbarians,” she hissed, too quietly for the human at the door to hear. But Loren did.

He laughed, a hoarse, jagged sound he barely recognized. It turned almost immediately into a groan, all the pain rushing back at once.

“Gods—” her silver gaze snapped to his, her eyes wide. “You’re awake.”

Before Loren could even start to formulate a response she was kneeling beside him on the filthy floor, setting her bag down beside her. “Can you sit?”

Loren hadn’t bothered to try. He shifted, bracing his hands against the floor. The cold stone bit into his palms, sending another spike of pain through his ribs. He grimaced, the effort leaving him breathless.

“Don’t—” Araya reached for him, the brush of her fingers like a brand over his frozen skin. “Let me help.”

Her touch was careful. Tentative. She slid her arm around his back and helped ease him upright. Stars flared in his vision, pain lancing through his side as he settled against the wall.

“Goddess…” he hissed. “That hurts.”

“I think you have a broken rib.” Her fingers ghosted over the dark bruise spreading across his side. “Possibly several.”

“Probably.” Loren sucked in a sharp breath. “That tends to happen when you get kicked by a mage wearing iron-shod boots.”

Araya winced. “Sorry,” she said, pulling back quickly, like his words had burned her. She turned away, digging through her satchel. “Here.”

She thrust a battered flask toward him. Loren took it warily, raising it to his nose. Nothing but water—cool and fresh. He drank greedily, washing the taste of blood from his mouth.

“Slowly,” she warned, gently prying the flask from his fingers. “Or you’ll make yourself sick. There’s nothing worse when you have a broken rib.”

She sounded like she knew from experience. What horrors had she lived, growing up under human rule? Loren stared at her, the bond humming in his chest. It reveled in her closeness, a wild pull it would be far too easy to give in to. He didn’t realize he was staring until she flushed, her gaze sliding away from his.

“I want to redress your wounds,” she said, rummaging through her bag. “You’ve been unconscious for days?—”

“You were the one who took care of me?” Loren stared as she pulled out fresh white bandages and jars of salve. “You can’t do that. If Shaw finds out?—”

“Jaxon already knows,” she sat back on her heels, studying him. “I told you—he’s my bond. I don’t do anything without him knowing.”

Her bond . Something inside Loren twisted painfully at her words—maybe his soul. Wrapped tightly in the threads that bound them together, it raged at the idea that anyone would dare to claim her— his mate.

“I asked him to authorize warmer clothes for you too,” she continued, oblivious to the storm raging inside him. “Blankets. Clean water and food that a person would actually eat?—”

“I told you not to ask for favors on my behalf,” Loren growled. “I don’t want you paying the price?—”

“What I’m willing to pay is my business.” Araya scowled at him, her face flushed with an emotion he couldn’t read in the dim light.

“You don’t—” He broke off with a hiss as she peeled back one of the bandages on his shoulder, her fingers grazing raw, inflamed skin. “I don’t want you involved in this. You could get hurt—Goddess!” He swore, flinching away. “What kind of Healer are you?”

“I’m not a Healer,” she snapped, sitting back on her heels. “I am a researcher.” She plucked a worn book out of her bag, waving it in his face. “I’ve read up on the basics—now are you going to be picky, or would you prefer to keep bleeding?”

Loren gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit still, his fingers curling into fists against the cold stone beneath him as she returned to examining his wounds. He could tell she was trying to be careful even if she was clumsy, her touch gentle as she wiped the inflamed skin with a cool cloth before applying a fresh poultice.

She couldn’t be here. The more time she spent with him, the more likely Jaxon was to figure out the connection between them—if he didn’t already know. This could all be some elaborate plot to break him.

“Why does Jaxon want you here?” Loren finally asked. He had to know if Jaxon knew—if he’d figured it out and was just waiting for the right moment to use it against him.

“He thinks it will make you more cooperative.”

Loren’s jaw clenched. “And what do you think?”

“I think—” Araya sighed, sitting back on her heels to meet his eyes. “I think that if you told him what he wants to know, it could spare you a lot of pain. It might even win you some comforts.”

“You think Jaxon won’t find another reason to torture me?” Loren scoffed. “They barely need a reason at all.”

“It would help the fae in the districts,” Araya pushed, her face set. “The shadows are hurting them. If you could help your people and make things easier on yourself at the same time, why wouldn’t you?”

“You actually believe they’ll use whatever I tell them to help the fae?” Loren laughed again, groaning at the ache in his ribs. “They’re humans. They lie. I’ve been in chains for twenty-five years—nothing is ever going to get better for me. I assume my parents and my sister are either dead or suffering the same.”

Araya’s hands stilled over the bandage she was tying. For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then, almost too quietly for him to hear, she asked, “Do you actually want to know?”

Loren looked at her, something cold and sharp settling in his chest. “Are you even allowed to tell me?”

“Probably not.” Araya gave a hollow little laugh. “But no one told me not to. And…” Her voice faltered. “I’ve always been glad I saw what happened to my mother. That I didn’t have to spend the rest of my life wondering. ”

Loren stared at her, then nodded tightly. “Tell me.”

“The fae queen was killed during the Ascendancy.” Araya sat back on her heels, her silver eyes shining with unshed tears. “The king escaped to Eluneth, where he was declared dead two years later—fallen in battle with New Dominion forces.”

Loren pressed his fist against his mouth, stifling the sob clawing its way up his throat. His ribs ached with each shallow breath, but the pain was nothing compared to the weight of her words. He’d known. He’d known there was no way they were alive—but hearing it…

“And my sister?” He asked when he had control of his voice again.

Araya shook her head. “I don’t know—but to my knowledge, you’re the only fae prisoner of royal descent in Arcanum custody. If you want me to try and find out more?—”

“No,” Loren managed, his voice rough with grief. “If she’s alive—don’t draw attention to her. Please.”

Araya nodded, pressing her lips together. They sat in silence for long minutes, watching each other.

“That’s why I can’t tell him anything,” Loren said finally. “Nothing the Arcanum does will ever be good for my people, no matter what they promise. I could never sell my people out for a little comfort.”

Araya didn’t answer him, her focus on tying off the last bandage. Her fingers lingered for half a breath before she pulled away, sending sparks skittering across his skin. Loren shuddered, desperate to reach for her—but she’d been raised by humans. She didn’t know about the mate bond. She didn’t know what she was to him, or that her presence here was a noose tightening around both their necks.

“You can’t come back here again,” Loren said, his words clipped. “You don’t understand what you’re risking by being here.”

Araya stilled, her silver eyes narrowing. “Then explain it to me.”

“No.” Loren looked away, fixing his eyes on the cracked stone in the wall. His fingers curled against his knee, aching to reach for her—to pull her close—but he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

But she didn’t let it go.

“It has something to do with the dreams, doesn’t it?” She pressed.

Loren’s head snapped back toward her, anger and fear blazing in his veins. “I told you—never speak of that.”

The shadows stirred, slithering from the dark corners of the cell at his outburst. Araya’s gaze flicked over his shoulder, her eyes widening as they closed in around them both. But she didn’t run.

“Why are they doing that?” she asked softly. “You—you’re not controlling them. And I’m not…”

She trailed off, her face breaking into a wide smile even as the misty shadows coiled closer to her. “I was right, wasn’t I? They’re sentient.”

No— she was too close. Loren needed to end this—now. Before she learned enough to hang herself. He needed her to leave and not come back, but if he couldn’t convince her to do that…she needed to hate him.

“Why would you choose to tie yourself to him?”

Araya stiffened at his question, her jaw tightening as she looked away. “I told you—I made the choices I had to make to survive.” She stretched out her hand, letting the curious shadows twine around her fingers as something dark and ancient purred in delight.

“Survive?” The word was bitter on his tongue, poisoned by the weight of his own guilt. Loren swallowed, his ribs aching—not from his injuries, but from the weight of what he was about to do.

He almost stopped himself. He wanted to warn her—beg her to listen. But even that would be too dangerous. So he hardened his heart and turned the words into something else. Something that would hurt.

“And what are you surviving for, Araya? To be his pet? His whore?”

Her head snapped up, her breath hitching. For a heartbeat, she just stared at him, silver eyes wide—not with fury, but with something worse. Hurt.

“I know enough.” His chest tightened—guilt clawing at him—but he forced himself to hold her gaze. Forced himself to stay cold. Distant. Hating him would keep her safe. “I know you chose him over your own people. Over yourself. You gave up.”

She’d been a child. What else could he have expected her to do?

Araya recoiled as if he’d struck her, her expression hardening. “I’m not the one rotting in a cell,” she said quietly, her voice trembling at the edges as she stood, brushing the dirt from her skirts. “Maybe you’re the one who gave up— Your Highness. ”

She didn’t look back as she walked to the door, knocking twice. The aetherlamp extinguished as it swung shut behind her, plunging him back into darkness.

But Loren wasn’t alone, and this time, the shadows didn’t wait. They surged from the corners of the cell, curling tight around his limbs and banding around his chest. Their whispers joined together, rising from a murmur to a deafening cacophony.

Coward , they hissed. You drove her away.

Loren’s head thudded back against the wall. “We were never meant to be,” he told them. “Not like this. Not as these broken things the humans made of us. I can’t be what she needs—and she would never choose me, anyway.”

She. Is. Yours. The shadows snarled, their voices joining together until they were almost screaming at him. And you let her go. You hurt her.

“Because she’s safer if she hates me,” Loren growled. “She would be better off if she never saw me—either of us—ever again.”

Liar. The word slithered through the darkness, sharper than any blade. You’re afraid, Shadow Prince. Afraid of her. Afraid of yourself. And afraid of us.

Loren didn’t argue.

The shadows had known him his whole life—had chosen him as his father’s heir when he was only a child, no older than Araya was when she gave up her name. They knew him better than he knew himself.

He sagged against the wall, groaning as his ribs protested the movement. The countless cuts Jaxon had left on him throbbed, the pain a dull constant. But it was nothing compared to the ache of the bond in his chest, a phantom wound that would never heal.

It tied them together, whether they wanted it or not—and that was the cruelest punishment of all.