Page 66 of Wings of Ice and Steel

Ariadnne shot her handler a pointed look; Melixanthe wasn’t one for rest.

‘Fine.’ Melixanthe ground her teeth. ‘Ariadnne, you can let Josef know that he’s in charge for a few days.’ She leaned back against the headrest of the bed. ‘This couldn’t have happened at a worse time,’ she groaned. ‘Best behaviour this week, I mean it.’ She fixed Ariadnne with a firm stare, and Ariadnne nodded.

But Melixanthe was wrong in her prediction. She didn’t recover in a few days, instead getting steadily worse as the week progressed—until Ariadnne refused to train in favour of sitting at her bedside. Melixanthe slipped in and out of wakefulness, a fever raging through her body resistant to any herbs the healers tried. Ariadnne fretted hour after hour. This was no normal wound.

Her mind went back to the battle, replaying the scenario from every angle, her darker thoughts wondering if the arrow had been laced with poison. When she voiced these fears the healer avoided her eyes, insisting it was just an infection.

Ariadnne’s head was all over the place. None of it made sense.

Worry jangled through the bond and Ariadnne could feel Nieve’s concern. She hadn’t seen her for a few days and missed her so much it hurt. However, even as she missed her, an unsettling, traitorous thought slipped through the chinks of her mind. Yes, Sol had been present at both of Melixanthe’s ‘accidents’, but so had Nieve. She forced the thought out of her mind. She knew Nieve. Her mate knew her feelings for Melixanthe and would never risk wounding Ariadnne by hurting her. She clung onto every one of Nieve’s emotions that pulsed through her chest like a comforting blanket, trusting that Nieve was there for her even if she couldn’t see her.

A groan escaped Melixanthe’s chapped lips, bringing Ariadnne’s attention back to her deathly pale face. Her eyelids fluttered and Ariadnne’s chest filled with lead. If Melixanthe died, she would hunt the bastard who’d poisoned her and rip their entrails out of their throat. Violently. Whoever it was had better pray she lived.

Thirty

Ariadnne

Hands grasped at her limbs, pulling and tugging her in all directions. The air was thick with sobs and cries, her lungs aching from the screams that ripped from her throat as she was dragged from loving, familiar arms. Snatches of faces; dark hair she knew, pale skin she didn’t. Her teeth sinking into a pale arm and a cruel voice cursing.

‘You knew not to get attached. Be proud. She will be magnificent once we’ve broken her.’

Then darkness. Iron at her throat. Pain each time her form shimmered, trying to break free. Pain until she’d learned to press it down, down. Unnatural. Fettered.

She screamed—

Sunlight streamed in through the window as Sascha flung the curtains wide. Ariadnne rose from her childhood nightmare with a gasp, clutching at herself. She was whole; it was a dream. Her sheets lay discarded on the floor, nightgown tangled round her thighs. Sascha gave her a sympathetic glance; she was well aware of the nightmares that plagued Ariadnne’s sleep. Nothing helped, no tonics or soothing herbs.

After being turned out of her handler’s rooms, Ariadnne had lain awake for hours fretting over Melixanthe’s safety and how she would interrogate Sol’s company. From the position of the sun through the window, she had slept in. She groaned—she should be back with Melixanthe, but her lack of sleep weighed down her eyes, and the idea of rising pained her. Perhaps she could take a few more minutes—

Sascha didn’t agree.

The maid bustled around as she tried to bury back under the covers. Clothes were set out and yesterday’s things folded and put away as Sascha relentlessly hummed a droning tune that went right through Ariadnne’s skull.

‘Why in nine hells are you humming? What could there possibly be to hum about?’ Ariadnne flung her cover off, anger coiling in her belly. She didn’t know if she was angry at Sascha for waking her, or at herself for sleeping in.

She dragged a hand across her eyes. ‘I need to get back to Melixanthe’s rooms.’

The hint of a smile Sacha threw her way infuriated her further. Her maid shook her head.

‘No, you don’t.’

‘What? Why?’ Fear spiked. What did Sascha know? Was Melixanthe d—

‘She’s fine. Stop panicking.’ Sascha rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly. All rage and fire sometimes… Melixanthe woke up. She’s here, waiting for you in the other room. Seems even a brush with death won’t keep our general from her restday tradition of taking lunch with you.’

Ariadnne’s jaw dropped. ‘Here?’

‘Yes. Here, and she’s getting impatient.’ Sascha looked pointedly at the pile of clothes she’d placed at the foot of the bed.

‘Oh—’ A heady mixture of relief and trepidation coursed through her—they still hadn’t spoken since her transgression. Melixanthe might be here to dole out further punishment, but equal to Ariadnne’s fear of her handler’s disappointment, she wanted to see her face. Awake. Alive. She swung her legs round and reached for the clothes, pulling them on as fast as she could.

She found Melixanthe hunched on the couch looking older than she ever had, dark bruises bleeding under her usually vibrant eyes.

Alive.

The sheer enormity of what that meant to Ariadnne hit her like a punch to the gut. She needed Melixanthe and couldn’t imagine life in the Guild without her.

‘Not like you to sleep in...’ Melixanthe croaked, her voice a shadow of that which cried commands across battlefields. Ariadnne bit down on her lip to stop herself running to embrace her.