Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
He’s slumped against a wall, half-naked and dripping when the door opens and a figure is shoved inside. Quin squints and the room grows blurry. When his vision finally sharpens, Chaos’s face appears, also flushed; Quin surges to his feet and whisks him close, demanding to know what he’s doing here. Who brought him. Why.
Chaos tilts his head back, baring his throat as he moans and pulls at his clothes. He doesn’t know how he got here. He was sent in by redcloaks. He doesn’t know what to do, but he’s hot. He’s feeling hot and shivery and shaky, and he reaches for Quin, pushing himself against his body with a groan, as if just being against him provides relief.
“Something’s not right,” Quin says, the room coming in and out of focus, but each time, it is Chaos standing before him, half undone, his shirt torn, his leggings very tight indeed. Quin’s hands clamp around Chaos’s hips and his lips urgently seek Chaos’s ear. “What are you doing to me? Is this how you feel too?”
Chaos shudders in his arms. “I can’t help this,” he says. “I don’t know what they did, but I’m burning inside. You feel cool, so cool. Will you cool me?”
Quin’s body is wracked with something hot and primal and he crushes Chaos against him. “You’re the one who feels cool. Arcane Sovereign, I must have you cool me also.” Quin’s hands tighten around Chaos and their shivers are linked as they stumble to the bed, Quin dropping first, embracing Chaos protectively on the way down. Quin’s gaze seeks Chaos’s and holds. “Some . . . scheme . . . but . . .”
Chaos shudders against him, cocking his hips and arching to get closer. “Don’t care,” Chaos says. “I need . . .”
“But we haven’t before . . .”
“Please. Please.”
Vicious heat slams through Quin, making him growl and flip Chaos onto the bed. He struggles to keep the barest slither of reason. “I’ll take . . . you carefully.”
The memory Quin shared with me of that night didn’t stop there, but it faded—as if he couldn’t let me see everything. Only enough to know he thought of me. He thought that night was with me. And when the memory sharpened again it was morning, and the doors to his chamber were open, blowing in a mind-clearing breeze, and Quin turned in his sheets to find not Chaos sprawled beside him, but his crown princessa. Veronica.
She awakens too. They stare at one another in shock and misery. They utter apologies at the same time and grit their teeth as they stare at the redcloaks lined up outside. The princessa rushes away, and Quin canes himself angrily to the bathhouse where he curses and slams water and scrubs himself over and over until he sags into the depths with a single tear rolling down his tight jaw.
I wake on a hollow sigh to discover Quin and his small unit of men gone. Along with the grey rays of dawn, a heavy quiet has descended over the camp. Only the flapping of tent doors and hooves stamping the ground break the silence.
The air is heavy with the scent of blood and pain, carried on the wind from a not-too-distant battle. I stare into the foreboding breeze as stormblades ride solemnly through camp, axes and arrowheads glinting at their backs.
Quin has already headed there.
I wish he’d told me, and I’m glad he didn’t. It’s hard enough watching men I don’t know brace themselves and bravely go into a violent unknown. How could I have possibly watched Quin?
I know how strong he is, how determined, how utterly courageous. But I also know he too feels the furious pound of fear. He too can bleed into the earth. He too can cry.
“Get through this,” I pray, squeezing my fists. “Nicostratus will be coming soon.”
Cutting through the silence comes a hectic bustle of soldier feet and cries to make way. Bloodied stormblades are running through camp, with injured men on their backs.
I bolt towards the healing tent.
There’s no time for introductions—I meet my fellow healers with a mere nod before helping settle an unconscious soldier onto a straw mat as other wounded are laid likewise in orderly rows. I check my soldier’s pulse and scan the tent for supplies. There’s a fair amount, but how long is it supposed to last? How many does it have to save?
I choose only to heat a brew for his critical internal bleeding and the older healer beside me nods once.
All morning, we work relentlessly through the copper tang of blood. When we’ve removed arrows, sewn slashes, patched and bandaged one group of soldiers, another group is carried in, and another. There’s no time to eat, no time to use the privy. When we’re not cleaning wounds, we’re cleaning cloth for future wounds. Even when two more healers arrive to help, we are too few.