“Thank God,” I whisper.
He chuckles. “Flippant to the last. I didn’t say we were done yet.”
He moves to a small table and dips a cup in the bowl waiting there. I tense when he comes toward me.
Liquid pours over my chest, scented with herbs and something else.
The ley line explodes out of me, forcing him to block the worst of the blast. Unlike Mab, he grimaces against the onslaught.
Another cupful of liquid. Another spasm. I slump, chains at my wrists holding me up. I’m boneless, watching watery blood trickle past my feet and swirl down the drain.
A door opens. Footsteps. I try to lift my head, but it’s too heavy. My body won’t obey me.
“We’re ready, Your Royal Highness.” The voice is rough, unfamiliar. A guard, maybe?
“Excellent—”
Then cold. Such cold—
Panic in my torturer’s voice. “Brother, what are you doing here?”
“Who are you and Mother working on? You never dirty your hands like this, Sláine.” I know this voice.
My eyes open and hold a shocked gaze. Eyes pale as sea foam. Roark. Of course he’s here. He’s always here.
His fingers skim my cheek. “Fuck. Finn—”
He’s ripped away from me. Yelling. Fighting. Darkness...
“Finn, wake up.”
My body screams when my arm drops, freed from the manacle. He rests my weight against him, reaching for the second restraint.
“What the fuck happened?” he asks.
I speak, voice little more than a whisper. “Kidnapped.”
“I see that, idiot.”
“Lyne...”
His breath warm against my cheek as he tries to walk with my weight.
“Lyne...”
“What?”
“Under the tree... Tell my parents... Bury me under the oak tree...”
“You’re not going to die.”
His hand tightens around my waist and I groan when warmth seeps from one of the wounds he accidentally pushes open.
“Keep talking,” he urges as we move down quiet halls flickering with some kind of candlelight.
“Hate your mom.”
“Understandable.”