“Stop that. We’ll figure this out.” He drags me into a rib-crushing hug and the safety of his embrace makes the ache in my chest settle deeper. “We’ll figure this out,” he repeats and I nod, pretending not to hear his voice waver.

Chapter Eighteen

Roark

They broke my watch.

The black blood flowing down my right arm leaves a trail in my wake. Lugh urges me to go to the healer. Behind us, Keiran’s deep bass recounts the entire clusterfuck in detail to Nickgut, who arrived to tell us to meet Mother in the throne room. Hobs follow the Hunt, scooping up discarded weapons and armor. Bridget, her face set in stone, circles me like a shark sensing a struggle in the water. Her dexterous fingers undo the clasps of my armor.

She removes the pauldron and a new spurt of warm blood escapes. It was a lucky strike. The dagger angled itself under that plate and dug into my shoulder. Bridget pauses over the clasp of the breastplate, her eyes tracking the wet darkening of my sleeve.

“By Herne,” I growl, “just do it.”

She obeys. The world goes white and my younger brother steadies me as all my strength gushes out of that wound. Silence buzzes in my head. A deep breath. The spinning stops. Another breath. Grey shadows right themselves. I stalk out of Lugh’s grasp, regaining my earlier pace.

We were ambushed by the Seelie and they broke my watch.

I have no idea what day it is.

“Roark, you’re bleeding,” Lugh reminds me again.

“Report to Mother,” I order.

“You were stabbed. Your shoulder needs attention—”

I ignore him. I don’t have time to argue. I don’t have time for any of this.

They think it’s my shoulder that made me hunch over my horse’s back on our miserable ride back. That the pain from the injury is what left me screaming into the mane. That some kind of poison pushed me to ride my steed to the cusp of death to return to the sídhe.

They can believe whatever the hell they choose. I have no intention of telling them the truth. The pain of a promise broken, of magickal bindings turning on their speaker, is an exquisite agony only the sufferer can appreciate.

And that can’t hold a candle to the knowledge that Finn’s out there, hurting, and I couldn’t get to him in time.

“Roark Tahm Lyne.”

The rest of the retinue freezes when my mother calls my name. She waits at the entrance of her throne room, a terrifying vision of ice and shadow.

“It was a trap,” I announce, tightening my grip around the shattered timepiece in my left hand. “He wasn’t there.”

“You’re injured. I have healers waiting.” She gestures toward the privacy of her throne room. “Come.”

I feel the pressure of that command, the sticky webbing of the magick she infused into the word. In my hand, broken iron wheels sit frozen in time. Choices, choices.

“Lugh and Keiran will explain,” I say as I pass.

I’ll suffer for that slight. But I’ll suffer later. That’s all that matters. Only Bridget follows me to my chambers.

Safe in the privacy of my rooms, I finish stripping. After this many centuries with me, Bridget doesn’t have any delicate sensibilities left. A rush of water sounds from behind the screen hiding my copper tub.

“No,” I call, trying to dig clothes out of my bag one-handed. “No time.”

She emerges around the screen, scowling. The rush of water doesn’t slow. “You’re covered in blood. Yours and Seelie. We’ll make it quick.”

“I need to go.”

“You will do no good leaking through your shirt and looking like you just rode through the Wylds. Bathe. I’ll set out your clothes. Once you’re bandaged, no one will stand in your way.”

She doesn’t make me give her the watch. Not that I would have if she asked. I hold it up out of the water with my uninjured arm.

Tags: M.A. Grant Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net