41

Rattling Cages

I freeze halfway off Reven’s lap. He’s still as stone, eyes closed, not even breathing.

A shadow ripples across his face.

Panic stabs through me. If Reven’s protectiveness of me makes what’s inside him harder to control, how is he going to hold on while the threat is talking to us and I’m in his lap?

“Look at me, woman,” the soldier commands.

Reven growls at that, the sound otherworldly and a warning to the man. Or is that one of the things inside him?

Goddess, what a mess. We’ll be thrown in a prison or sent somewhere worse, somewhere one of us would be recognized, if I can’t salvage this situation, and that’ll be exactly what the shadows want. I need Reven.

I dip my head and nuzzle his neck right below his ear. “Hang on, okay?” I breathe.

He grunts and shifts beneath me, fingers digging into my hips.

I take that as a yes. Here goes nothing.

Bracing myself, I whisper a soft, sweet kiss over the ridge of his cheekbone. When nothing bad happens, I do it again.

My hair has fallen loose, or someone unbraided it. Reven, maybe, as he checked my head wound. Before I can lift a hand to scoop the heavy fall of it out of my face, Reven moves, sliding it back in a slow, sensuous touch that is somehow also an exploration of the whorls of my ear.

I bite my lip to keep in a whimper, but one of those would probably help our cause—if it doesn’t unleash all the things inside the Shadowraith I’m straddling. Ugh. Thinking of some of the lewd things I’ve witnessed on the street outside the hovel, I let out a tentative moan—oh my goddess, I sound ridiculous—and I know I messed it up when he tenses underneath me again.

“Relax,” Reven whispers. Then nips at my earlobe.

A relieved breath whooshes from me, and I sag against him. He sounds stronger again. Like himself. For now. That fact alone should make me feel a smidge better. Instead, worry bands my ribs, squeezing. I don’t think we’ve convinced the soldier yet.

The man bangs the bars of the cage with his fist, and I jump. I also look at him directly for the first time. The soldier has bags under his eyes that look like bruises against his pale skin. “Your name?” he demands.

“Meren.” It slips from me without even a beat of hesitation, and I have to hide my flinch at the mistake. I could hardly use Tabra’s name, though, I reason.

Reven must’ve felt that tiny movement, because he also stills, then lifts his other hand to smooth it down my back, pressing me closer into him, pressing harder the lower that hand gets until I settle more fully in his lap. The core of me nestles against his body. I’m bombarded by sensation. Heat. Hardness. The aching need to press into him.

Oh yeah. We’ve left chaste far behind.

“What’s your name?” I force myself to ask the soldier. A pathetic attempt at distraction for all three of us but especially me.

“Easy.” Reven whispers the warning.

“I’m asking the questions here,” the soldier snaps. A captain, I realize now, based on the insignia stamped into his armor. “Why were you traveling this way?”

“To offer the Goddess Tyndra thanks and sacrifices of fire for our binding.”

He stares back silently, distrustful gaze slipping between us, assessing. “I guess I don’t have to ask who this man is to you,” he mutters, face turning sort of purple with frustration.

Everything about Reven goes tight beneath me and around me, hands curling into my flesh almost painfully. His pupils dilate, eating up the blue of his irises. I catch a swirl of shadows in the blackness.

“Stay with me,” I whisper as I look at Reven, taking in the lines and valleys and planes of his face. Forms I am unexpectedly, intimately familiar with, more than I have any right to be.

Another shadow slips across his skin, and his eyes go dark. He’s losing the battle, and when he does, things are going to get bad. I think of the soldiers who attacked me and Niri in Wildernyss. The kind of bad that won’t end well for these men. Goddess only knows what the shadows will do to me.

In a last-ditch effort, I put my hands against his cheeks and press a kiss to his lips, willing Reven to hold on. “My bondmate,” I murmur, loud enough for the captain to hear. I try to imbue the words with reverence—and intent.

Use me as an anchor, I’m trying to tell Reven with my eyes, my touch. Stay with me.

The soldier harrumphs. “We’ll see what the general has to say about you when he arrives.”

I jolt at that. The general. Capital G.

Has Eidolon sent his trusted advisor to deal with this? What was the name Vos gave at dinner? Quinten. The one who had been with Eidolon in Aryd? The one who’s met Vos before and would recognize Reven’s resemblance to his king?

“How long do we have to wait?” I call after him, hoping he misses the panic in my voice. “When does he arrive?”

“Soon enough.”

Not an answer.

Why are nonanswers always so much worse?

The second he turns the corner, I scramble off Reven’s lap. “He’s gone. We can stop—”

A sound—like a man at the edge of his control and in pain with it—escapes him, and suddenly Reven’s across the small space, lips on mine, claiming me.

And heavens help me, I whimper and open up to him, matching him fevered stroke for stroke. The questing dart of his tongue I answer with my own, and his hands grip my hips, dragging me back to him. I wind up on his lap again, the hard, long length of him pressing against me through the barrier of our clothes.

Despite the turmoil of want consuming me, I need to see. Need to know this is Reven.

I wrench myself away from the kiss and scan his face. My breathing hitches as I stare into desperate eyes. Turquoise eyes.

I throw my arms around him. “Thank the goddesses.”

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, breathing hard. “I’m sorry.”

The adrenaline of the last few minutes comes crashing down, and I have to choke back a laugh. Sorry? For which part? The forced proximity? The intimate show that got out of hand? Or the fact we nearly unleashed all of Eidolon’s evil shadows?

A chill replaces the heat between us so fast, a Tyndran wind may as well have blown through. I go to move off Reven’s lap again, but his grip tightens. “Don’t.”

Why? Because he’s afraid someone’s watching, or because he’s about to lose control again?

His expression sobers. “I put you in danger.”

“It’s not your fault.” Truth. “But we have a new problem. Will this General Quinten person recognize you?”

“Yes. Quentin will recognize me because of who I look like.” Unease squeezes his voice.

“So we need to get out of here quickly.”

“Quicker is better.”

Which means not waiting for night and Reven to get us out. I’m not familiar enough with Vos’s power to know if he can help. He might not even be conscious yet, anyway…or even on our side, if I go down the suspicious route.

I do my best to concentrate. “Is it clear for me to try my power?”

A long pause follows the question. “Yes. But try to hide the light.”

How am I supposed to do that, exactly? Usually, I aim my hands at whatever I am working on. I’m not even sure what will happen if I don’t, but I guess I can try to keep them fisted. At least I won’t need to create glass, so we can avoid the sparks.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I feel him smile into my hair.

Keeping my head on his shoulder, I turn it to the side, toward him, like I’m snuggling into him. I tuck my right hand between us, aiming my fist toward the ground on his other side. Then, reaching deeper than I’ve had to in the past, I touch the light inside me.

I gasp as the tingling sensation of my power coming to the surface collides with the need my body is still struggling with as I lay against Reven, his body heat and scent all around me. I hardly even notice the cold now, even though it’s bitter, because I am sizzling. Alive.

Holy hells.

“Okay?” Reven asks, his perfect, silken voice doing nothing to help my little problem.

“Mm-hmm,” I manage.

Ignoring the way that buzzing coalesces and centers inside me, I focus on feeling out the sand. Here, despite the snow, we’re closer to the beaches that line the channel between Little Tyndra and the mainland, and there’s more sand in the ground to manipulate than in the Shadowood. I know where we are because the tower is close, rising above us. If we get out, we can run there and go through the portal. Hopefully before they even know we’re gone.

I try to lift particles, shift them away from the bars of our cage. Except they won’t move—like pounding a fist against a solid wall. I concentrate, my earlier headache returning with the effort. “Warn me if anyone is coming.”

Before he can agree, I dare to open my hand palm outward. The glow hardly penetrates the brightness of day, and though I can sense each particle, each crystalline fragment of sand below us, they still do nothing at my command.

Nothing.

Discomfort spikes through my head, and cold seeps into my bones.

I must’ve tensed in his arms, because Reven lifts a hand and runs it soothingly down the back of my head and my spine, pressing in with just enough force to ease my muscles. “Relax.”

“It’s not working.” Frustration and fear build, layering onto all the other emotions I’m collecting inside me.

Only, instead of concern, he sort of hums a sound that says he isn’t surprised. “You need time to recover after that knock to the head.”

And other things.

I blow out a harsh breath of aggravation. “I’m going to kill these assholes.”

He snorts a laugh. “My princess has a potty mouth.”

“They deserve death.”

“I know. Get in line.”

I let a long breath go. “What are we going to do?”

Rather than answer, he straightens, listening. “Someone else is coming.”

A young man or maybe a woman—it’s not immediately apparent which—makes their way to our cage. Maybe a few years younger than me. A thin face, tattoos that go up their neck and into their braided hair, and the clothing of a Tyndran soldier, covered by a long cape. But instead of standing back and scowling like the last guy did, they squat down and smile.

Umm…what now?

“My name is Wren,” they say. “I’m from Savanah.”

What is a Savanahan doing with the Tyndran army?

My question must show on my face because they shrug. “Tyndra and Savanah were twin goddesses. Our dominions share our sacred trees. Of course we’re friendly.”

Friendly. Not allies. An interesting way to put it.

“I am a healer.”

My eyes widen involuntarily. This is an Imperium with an ability dominions have been known to go to war over.

“What kind?” Reven demands.

Wren’s grin is charmingly lopsided. “Only physical. I can’t do anything weird.”

So would that make this healer a Hylorae? I don’t know what weird things other healers can do, and I don’t ask. I have enough to deal with.

“Does anything hurt?” Wren asks like they actually care.

I study the healer closely. Savanahans are known for honesty the way Arydians are known for patience.

I glance at Reven. “My head,” I say.

Wren nods. “Reach your hand through the bar.”

Reven grunts, clearly not liking that, but if it means getting out of here faster, I’m willing to risk it. So, remaining where I am against him, I reach out, and Wren grasps my hand. Immediately, warmth radiates from where we touch, and I gasp.

Reven tenses more, moving under me like he’s going to stop this.

“No,” I tell him. “It’s fine. Just…tingly.”

Wren eyes us both warily. Meanwhile, the warmth builds, moving up my arm, then shoulders and neck, and into my head. Soon, all the pain is gone.

Taking a deep breath, Wren releases me, but not before I feel the way their hands had started to tremble. Whatever this healer did to fix me, it took a physical toll.

Wren stands to leave.

“Wait,” I say. “Why did you do that?”

The healer’s brows lower. “We all have orders.”

They’d been ordered to heal us? “Why?”

“You may be in a cage, but that’s for our safety. We won’t treat you like animals.” Wren squats back down. “Our job is to protect the people of Tyndra. If that’s what you are, then you have nothing to worry about.” They tip their head. “You should rest. Even with my healing, the body still needs that after trauma.”

On that warning—one I get the feeling was meant as a comforting assurance—Wren leaves.

Reven adjusts how we’re sitting until he’s leaning against the bars, which can’t be comfortable, feet outstretched, and I’m sort of bundled up in his lap, my head on his chest. Thank heavens for my heavy cloak, which is long and now acts like a blanket over my updrawn feet. I suspect he’s keeping my poor body, used to the climate of the desert, off the snow.

“The healer is right. We rest,” he says.

“Rest?” That’s a terrible idea. We need to get out of here. Fast. Now that I’m feeling better—

“Either they decide to believe us and let us go before Quinten shows…or we try again later after you’ve had a chance to recover more. Also before he shows.”

Because if we’re still here when he arrives, we’re dead.